The Child of the Dawn

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BY

ARTHUR C. BENSON

FBLLOW OF MAGDALENE COLLEGE
CAMBRIDGB

THE UPTON LETTERS

FROM A COLLEGE
WINDOW

BESIDE STILL WATERS

THE ALTAR FIRE

THE SCHOOLMASTER

AT LARGE

THE GATE OF DEATH

THE SILENT ISLE

JOHN RUSKIN

LEAVES OF THE TREE

CHILD OF THE DAWN

PAUL THE MINSTREL

THE CHILD OF
THE DAWN

By

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON
Fellow of Magdalene College, Cambridge

ij56 TL OapaaKiais
rbp fMKpbv Tclp€iv filov iXvUrip

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

New YORK AND LONDON

Zbc Itnfcfierbocfier preaa
1912

Copyright, xpia

BY

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

tCbe Imf cfterbocliet puM, tuw ffoct

MY BEST AND DEAREST FRIEND

HERBERT FRANCIS WILLIAM TATHAM

IN LOVE AND HOPE

INTRODUCTION

I THINK that a book like the following,
which deals with a subject so great and so
mysterious as our hope of immortality, by
means of an allegory or fantasy, needs a
few words of preface, in order to clear away
at the outset any misunderstandings which
may possibly arise in a reader's mind.
Nothing is further from my wish than to
attempt any philosophical or ontological
exposition of what is hidden behind the veil
of death. But one may be permitted to
deal with the subject imaginatively or
poetically, to translate hopes into visions,
as I have tried to do.

The fact that underlies the book is this:
that in the course of a very sad and strange
experience — an illness which lasted for some
two years, involving me in a dark cloud of
dejection — I came to believe practically, in-
stead of merely theoretically, in the personal

vi Introduction

immortality of the human soul. I was con-
scious, during the whole time, that though
the physical machinery of the nerves was
out of gear, the soul and the mind remained,
not only intact, but practically unaflEected
by the disease, imprisoned, like a bird in a
cage, but i)erfectly free in themselves, and
uninjured by the bodily weakness which en-
veloped them. This was not all. I was led
to perceive that I had been living life with
an entirely distorted standard of values; I
had been ambitious, covetous, eager for
comfort and respect, absorbed in trivial
dreams and childish fancies. I saw, in the
course of my illness, that what really mat- ^
tered to the soul was the relation in which
it stood to other souls; that aflfection was
the native air of the spirit; and that any-
thing which distracted the heart from the
duty of love was a kind of bodily delusion,
and simply hindered the spirit in its
pilgrimage.

It is easy to learn this, to attain to a
sense of certainty about it, and yet to be

Introduction vii

unable to put it into practice as simply and
frankly as one desires to do! The body
grows strong again and reasserts itself ; but
the blessed consciousness of a great possi-
bility apprehended and grasped remains.

There came to me, too, a sense that one ^
of the saddest effects of what is practically
a widespread disbelief in immortality, which
aflfects many people who would nominally
disclaim it, is that we think of the soul
after death as a thing so altered as to be
practically unrecognisable — as a meek and
pious emanation, without qualities or aims
or passions or traits — as a sort of amiable
and weak-kneed sacristan in the temple of
God; and this is the unhappy result of our
so often making religion a pursuit apart
from life — an occupation, not an atmo-
sphere; so that it seems impious to think
of the departed spirit as interested in any-
thing but a vague species of liturgical
exercise.

I read the other day the account of the
death-bed of a great statesman, which was

viii Introduction

written from what I maj call a somewhat
clerical point of riew. It was recorded
i^ith mnch gusto that the dring politician
took no interest in his schemes of gOTem-
ment and cares of State, bnt fonnd per-
petnal solace in the repetition of childish
brmns. This fact had^ or might have had,
a certain beantr of its own, if it had been
expressly stated that it was a proof that
the tired and broken mind fell back npon
old^ simple, and dear recollections of by-
gone love. Bnt there was manifest in the
record a kind of sanctimonious triumph in
the extinction of all the great man^s in-
sight and wisdom. It seemed to me that
the right treatment of the episode was
rather to insist that those great qualities,
won by brave experience and unselfish
effort, were only temporarily obscured, and
belonged actually and essentially to the
spirit of the man; and that if heaven is
indeed, as we may thankfully believe, a
place of work and progress, those qualities
would be actively and energetically em-

Introduction ix

ployed as soon as the soul was freed from
the trammels of the failing body.

Another point may also be mentioned.
The idea of transmigration and reincarna- ^
tion is here used as a possible solution for
the extreme diflfliculties which beset the
question of the apparently fortuitous brev-
ity of some human lives. I do not, of
course, propound it as literally and pre-
cisely as it is here set down — it is not a
forecast of the future, so much as a sym-
bolising of the forces of life — but tlfie re-
newal of conscious experience^ in some form
or other, seems to be the only way out of
the diflfliculty, and it is that which is here
indicated. If life is a probation for those ^
who have to face experience and temptation,
how can it be a probation for infants and
children, who die before the faculty of moral
choice is developed? Again, I find it very
hard to believe in any multiplication of ^
human souls. It is even more diflflicult for
yne to believe in the creation of new souls
than in the creation of new matter. Sci-

X Introduction

ence has shown us that there is no actual
addition made to the snm of matter, and
that the apparent creation of new forms of
plants or animals is nothing more than a
rearrangement of existing particles — that if
a new form api)ears in one place, it merely
means that so much matter is transferred
thither from another place. I find it, I say, .
hard to believe that the snm total of life
is actually increased. To put it very simply^
for the sake of clearness, and accepting the
assumption that human life had some time
a beginning on this planet, it seems impos-
sible to think that when, let us say, the two
first progenitors of the race died, there were
but two souls in heaven; that when the
next generation died there were, let us say,
ten souls in heaven; and that this number
has been added to by thousands and mil-
lions, until the unseen world is peopled, as
it must be now, if no reincarnation is pos-
sible, by myriads of human identities, who,
after a single brief taste of incarnate lif^
join some vast community of spirits in

Introduction xi

which they eternally reside. I do not say
that this latter belief may not be true; I
only say that in default of evidence, it
seems to me a difficult faith to hold; while
a reincarnation of spirits, if one could be-
lieve it, would seem to me both to equalise
the Inequalities of human experience, and
give one a lively belief in the virtue and
worth of human endeavour. But all this
is set down, as I say, in a tentative and not
in a philosophical form.

And I have also in these pages kept ad-
visedly clear of Christian doctrines and
beliefs ; not because I do not believe whole-
heartedly in the divine origin and unex-
hausted vitality of the Christian revelation,
but because I do not intend to lay rash and
profane hands upon the highest and holiest
of mysteries.

I will add one word about the genesis of
the book. Some time ago I wrote a number
of short tales of an allegorical type. It
was a curious experience. I seemed to have
come upon them in my mind, as one comes

xii Introduction

upon a covey of birds in a field. One by
one they took wings and flew; and when
I had finished, though I was anxious to
write more tales, I could not discover any
more, though I beat the covert patiently
to dislodge them.

This particular tale rose unbidden in my j
mind. I was never conscious of creating
any of its incidents. It seemed to be all
there from the beginning; and I felt
throughout like a man making his way
along a road, and describing what he sees
as he goes. The road stretched ahead of
me; I could not see beyond the next turn
at any moment; it just unrolled itself in-
evitably and, I will add, very swiftly to
my view, and was thus a strange and mo-
mentous experience.

I will only add that the book is all based
upon an intense belief in God, and a no
less intense conviction of personal im-
mortality and personal responsibility. It
aims at bringing out the fact that our life
is a very real pilgrimage to high and far-oflE

Introduction xiii

things from mean and sordid beginnings ,
and that the key of the mystery lies in the
frank facing of experience, as a blessed pro-
cess by which the secret purpose of God is
made known to us; and, even more, in a
passionate belief in Love, the love of friend
and neighbour, and the love of God; and
in the absolute faith that we are all of us,
from the lowest and most degraded human
soul to the loftiest and wisest, knit to-
gether with chains of infinite nearness and
dearness, under God, and in Him, and
through Him, now and hereafter and for
evermore.

A. C. B.

The Old Lodge, Magdalene College,
Cambridge, January, 1912.

•vC

The Child of the Dawn

Certainly the last few moments of my
former material, worn-out life, as I must
still call it, were made horrible enough for
me. I came to, after the operation, in a
deadly sickness and ghastly confusion of
thought. I was just dimly conscious of the
trim, bare room, the white bed, a figure or
two, but everything else was swallowed up
in the pain, which filled all my senses at
once. Yet surely, I thought, it is all some-
thing outside me? ... my brain began to
wander, and the pain became a thing. It
was a tower of stone, high and blank, with
a little sinister window high up, from which
something was every now and then waved
above the house-roofs. . . . The tower was

2 The Child of the Dawn

gone in a moment, and there was a heap
piled up on the floor of a great room with
open beams — a granary, perhaps. The heap
was of curved sharp steel things like sickles :
something moved and muttered underneath
it, and blood ran out on the floor. Then
I was instantly myself, and the pain was
with me again; and then there fell on me
a sense of faintness, so that the cold sweat-
drops ran suddenly out on my brow. There
came a smell of drugs, sharp and pungent,
on the air. I heard a door open softly, and
a voice said, " He is sinking fast — they must
be sent for at once." Then there were more
people in the room, people whom I thought
I had known once, long ago; but I was
buried and crushed under the pain, like the
thing beneath the heap of sickles. There
swept over me a dreadful fear ; and I could
see that the fear was reflected in the faces
above me ; but now they were strangely dis-
torted and elongated, so that I could have
laughed, if only I had had the time; but
I had to move the weight oflE me, which

The Child of the Dawn 5

was crushing me. Then a roaring sound
began to come and go upon the air, louder
and louder, faster and faster; the strange
pungent scent came again; and then I was
thrust down under the weight, monstrous,
insupportable; further and further down;
and there came a sharp bright streak, like
a blade severing the strands of a rope
drawn taut and tense; another and an-
other; one was left, and the blade drew
near. . . .

I fell suddenly out of the sound and
scent and pain into the most incredible and
blessed peace and silence. It would have
been like a sleep, but I was still perfectly
conscious, with a sense of unutterable and
blissful fatigue ; a picture passed before me,
of a calm sea, of vast depth and clearness.
There were cliflEs at a little distance, great
headlands and rocky spires. I seemed to
myself to have left them, to have come down
through them, to have embarked. There
was a pale light everywhere, flushed with
rose-colour, like the light of a summer

4 The Child of the Dawn

dawn; and I felt as I had once felt as a
child, awakened early in the little old house
among the orchards, on a spring morning;
I had risen from my bed, and leaning out
of my window, filled with a delightfal
wonder, I had seen the cool morning
quicken into light among the dewy apple-
blossoms. That was what I felt like^ as I
lay ui)on the moving tide^ glad to rest, not
wondering or hoping, not fearing or expect-
ing anything — ^just there, and at peace.

There seemed to be no time in that other
blessed morning, no need to do anything.
The cliffs, I did not know how, faded from
me, and the boundless sea was about me on
every side; but I cannot describe the time-
lessness of it. There are no human words
for it all, yet I must speak of it in terms
of time and space, because both time and
space were there, though I was not bound
by them.

And here first I will say a few words
about the manner of speech I shall use. It
is very hard to make clear, but I think I

The Child of the Dawn 5

can explain it in an image. I once walked
alone, on a perfect summer day, on the
South Downs. The great smooth shoulders
of the hills lay left and right, and, in front
of me, the rich tufted grass ran suddenly
down to the plain, which stretched out be-
fore me like a map. I saw the fields and
woods, the minute tiled hamlet-roofs, the
white roads, on which crawled tiny carts.
A shepherd, far below, drove his flock along
a little deep-cut lane among high hedges.
The sounds of earth came faintly and
sweetly up, obscure sounds of which I could
not tell the origin ; but the tinkling of sheep-
bells was the clearest, and the barking of
the shepherd-dog. My own dog sat beside
me, watching my face, impatient to be gone.
But at the barking he pricked up his ears,
put his head on one side, and wondered, I
saw, where that companionable sound came
from. What he made of the scene I do not
know; the sight of the fruitful earth, the
homes of men, the fields and waters, filled
me with an inexpressible emotion, a wide-

6 The Child of the Dawn

flung hope, a sense of the immensity and
intricacy of life. But to my dog it meant
nothing at all, though he saw just what I
did. To him it was nothing but a great ex-
cavation in the earth, patched and streaked
with green. It was not then the scene it-
self that I loved; that was only a symbol
of emotions and ideas within me. It
touched the spring of a host of beautiful
thoughts ; but the beauty and the sweetness
were the contribution of my own heart and
mind.

Now in the new world in which I found
myself, I approached the thoughts of beauty
and loveliness direct, without any inter-
vening symbols at all. The emotions which
beautiful things had aroused in me upon
earth were all there, in the new life, but
not confused or blurred, as they had been
in the old life, by the intruding symbols of
ugly, painful, evil things. That was all
gone like a mist. I could not think an
evil or an ugly thought.

For a period it was so with me. For a

The Child of the Dawn 7

long time — I will use the words of earth
henceforth without any explanation — I
abode in the same calm, untroubled peace,
partly in memory of the old days, partly
in the new visions. My senses seemed all
blended in one sense; it was not sight or
hearing or touch — it was but an instant
apprehension of the essence of things. All
that time I was absolutely alone, though I
had a sense of being watched and tended
in a sort of helpless and happy infancy. It
was always the quiet sea, and the dawning
light. I lived over the scenes of the old
life in a vague, blissful memory. For the
joy of the new life was that all that had
befallen me had a strange and perfect sig-
nificance. I had lived like other men. I
had rejoiced, toiled, schemed, suffered,
sinned. But it was all one now. I saw
that each influence had somehow been shap-
ing and moulding me. The evil I had done,
/^as it indeed evil? It Had been the flower-
ing of a root of bitterness, the impact of
^iiaterial forces and influences. Had I ever

8 The Child of the Dawn

desired it? Not in my spirit, I now felt
Sin had brought me shame and sorrow, and
they had done their work. Repentance,
contrition — ugly words! I laughed softly
at the thought of how different it all was
from what I had dreamed. I was as the lost
sheep found, as the wayward son taken
home; and should I spoil my joy with re-
calling what was past and done with for
ever? Forgiveness was not a process, then,
a thing to be sued for and to be withheld;
it was all involved in the glad return to
the breast of God.

What was the mystery, then? The things
that I had wrought, ignoble, cruel, base,
mean, selfish — ^had I ever willed to do
them? It seemed impossible, incredible.
Were those grievous things still growing,
seeding, flowering in other lives left behind?
Had they invaded, corrupted, hurt other
poor wills and lives? I could think of
them no longer, any more than I could
^ think of the wrongs done to myself. Those
had not hurt me either. Perhaps I had

The Child of the Dawn 9

still to suffer, but I could not think of that.
I was too much overwhelmed with joy. The
whole thing seemed so infinitely little and
far away. So for a time I floated on the
moving crystal of the translucent sea, over
the glimmering deeps, the dawn above me,
the scenes of the old life growing and shap-
ing themselves and fading without any will
of my own, nothing within or without me
but ineffable peace and perfect joy.

II

I KNEW qnite well what had happened to
me ; that I had passed through what mortals
call Death : and two thoughts came to me ;
one was this. There had been times on
earth when one had felt sure with a sort
of deep instinct that one could not really
ever die ; yet there had been hours of weari-
ness and despair when one had wondered
whether death would not mean a silent
blankness. That thought had troubled me
most, when I had followed to the grave
some friend or some beloved. The moul-
dering form, shut into the narrow box, was
thrust with a sense of shame and disgrace
into the clay, and no word or sign returned
to show that the spirit lived on, or that
one would ever find that dear proximity
again. How foolish it seemed now ever to

lO

The Child of the Dawn 1 1

have doubted, ever to have been troubled!
Of course it was all eternal and everlasting.
And then, too, came a second thought. One
had learned in life, alas, so often to sepa-
rate what was holy and sacred from daily
life; there were prayers, liturgies, religious
exercises, solemnities, Sabbaths — an oppres-
sive strain, too often, and a banishing of
active life. Brought up as one had been,
there had been a mournful overshadowing
of thought, that after death, and with God,
it would be all grave and constrained and
serious, a perpetual liturgy, an unending
Sabbath. But now all was deliciously
merged together. All of beautiful and gra-
cious that there had been in religion, all
of joyful and animated and eager that there
had been in secular life, everything that
amused, interested, excited, all fine pic-
tures, great poems, lovely scenes, intrepid
thoughts, exercise, work, jests, laughter,
perceptions, fancies — ^they were all one
now; only sorrow and weariness and dul-
ness and ugliness and greediness were gone.

12 The Child of the Dawn

The thought was fresh^ pnre^ delicate, full
of a great and mirthful content.

There were no divisions of time in my
great peace ; past, present, and future were
alike all merged. How can I explain that?
It seems so impossible, having once seen
it, that it should be otherwise. The day
did not broaden to the noon, nor fade to
evening. There was no night there. More
than that. In the other life, the dark low-
hung days, one seemed to have lived so
little, and always to have been making ar-
rangements to live; so much time spent in
plans and schemes, in alterations and re-
grets. There was this to be done and that
to be completed; one thing to be begun,
another to be cleared away; always in
search of the peace which one never found ;
and if one did achieve it, then it was sur-
rounded, like some cast carrion, by a cloud
of poisonous thoughts, like buzzing blue-
flies. Now at last one lived indeed; but
there grew up in the soul, very gradually
and sweetly, the sense that one was resting.

The Child of the Dawn 13

growing accustomed to something, learning
the ways of the new place. I became more
and more aware that I was not alone; it
was not that I met, or encountered, or was
definitely conscious of any thought that was
not my own ; but there were motions as of
great winds in the untroubled calm in
which I lay, of vast deeps drawing past
me. There were hoverings and poisings of
unseen creatures, which gave me neither
awe nor surprise, because they were not in
the range of my thought as yet ; but it was
enough to show me that I was not alone,
that there was life about me, purposes going
forward, high activities.

The first time I experienced anything
more definite was when suddenly I became
aware of a great crystalline globe that rose
like a bubble out of the sea. It was of an
incredible vastness; but I was conscious
that I did not perceive it as I had per-
ceived things upon the earth, but that I
apprehended it all together, within and
without. It rose softly and swiftly out of

\

14 The Child of the Dawn

the expanse. The surface of it was all
alive. It had seas and continents, hills and
valleys, woods and fields, like our own earth.
There were cities and houses thronged with
living beings; it was a world like our own,
and yet there was hardly a form upon it
that resembled any earthly form, though
all were articulate and definite, ranging
from growths which I knew to be vegetable,
with a dumb and sightless life of their own,
up to beings of intelligence and purpose.
It was a world, in fact, on which a history
like that of our own world was working
itself out ; but the whole was of a crystalline
texture, if texture it can be called; there
was no colour or solidity, nothing but form
and silence, and I realised that I saw, if
not materially yet in thought, and recog-
nised then, that all the qualities of matter,
the sounds, the colours, the scents — all that
depends upon material vibration— were ab-
stracted from it; while form, of which the
idea exists in the mind apart from all con-
crete manifestations, was still present. For

The Child of the Dawn 15

some time after that, a series of these crys-
talline globes passed through the atmos-
phere where I dwelt, some near, some far;
and I saw in an instant, in each case, the
life and history of each. Some were still
all aflame, mere currents of molten heat
and flying vapour. Some had the first
signs of rudimentary life — some, again, had
a full and organised life, such as ours on
earth, with a clash of nations, a stream
of commerce, a perfecting of knowledge.
Others were growing cold, ancf the life
upon them was artificial and strange, only
achieved by a highly intellectual and noble
race, with an extraordinary command of
natural forces, fighting in wonderfully con-
structed and guarded dwellings against the
growing deathliness of a frozen world, and
with a tortured despair in their minds at
the extinction which threatened them.
There were others, again, which were frozen
and dead, where the drifting snow piled
itself up over the gigantic and pathetic con-
trivances of a race living underground, with

i6 The Child of the Dawn

huge vents and chimneys, burrowing further
into the earth in search of shelter, and nur-
turing life by amazing processes which I
cannot here describe. They WCTe marvel-
lously wise, those pale and shadowy crea-
tures, with a vitality infinitely ahead of
our own, a vitality out of which all weakly
or diseased elements had long been elim-
inated. And again there were globes
upon which all seemed dead and frozen to
the core, slipping onwards in some infinite
progress. But though I saw life under a
myriad of new conditions, and with an end-
less variety of forms, the nature of it was
the same as ours. There was the same ig-
norance of the future, the same doubts and
uncertainties, the same pathetic leaning of
heart to heart, the same wistful desire after
permanence and happiness, which could not
be there or so attained.

Then, too, I saw wild eddies of matter
i;aking shape, of a subtlety that is as fai'
beyond any known earthly conditions of

rryatif^v a^ stenm > iho^e frOZCU StOUe.

The Child of the Dawn 17

Great tornadoes whirled and poised; globes
of spinning fire flew oflE on distant errands
of their own, as when the heavens were
made; and I saw, too, the crash of world
with world, when satellites that had lost
their impetus drooped inwards ui)on some
central sun, and merged themselves at last
with a titanic leap. All this enacted itself
before me, while life itself flew like a pulse
from system to system, never diminished,
never increased, withdrawn from one to
settle on another. All this I saw and knew.

Ill

I THOUGHT I could never be satiated by this
infinite procession of wonders. But at last
there rose in my mind, like a rising star,
the need to be alone no longer. I was imss-
ing through a kind of heavenly infancy;
and just as a day comes when a child puts
out a hand with a conscious intention, not
merely a blind groping, but with a need to
clasp and caress, or answers a smile by a
smile, a word by a purposeful cry, so in
a moment I was aware of some one with
me and near me, with a heart and a nature
that leaned to mine and had need of me,
as I of him. I knew him to be one who
had lived as I had lived, on the earth that
was ours, — lived many lives, indeed ; and it
was then first that I became aware that I
had myself lived many lives too. My hu-
man life, which I had last left, was the

i8

The Child of the Dawn 19

fullest and clearest of all my existences;
but they had been many and various, though
always progressive. I must not now tell of
the strange life histories that had enfolded
me — they had risen in dignity and worth
from a life far back, unimaginably element-
ary and instinctive ; but I felt in a moment
that my new friend's life had been far richer
and more perfect than my own, though I
saw that there were still experiences ahead
of both of us ; but not yet. I may describe
his presence in human similitudes, a pres-
ence perfectly defined, though apprehended
with no human sight. He bore a name
which described something clear, strong,
full of force, and yet gentle of access, like
water. It was just that ; a thing perfectly
pure and pervading, which could be stained
and troubled, and yet could retain no de-
filement or agitation; which a child could
scatter and divide, and yet was absolutely
powerful and insuperable. I will call him
Amroth. Him, I say, because though there
was no thought of sex left in my conscious-

20 The Child of the Dawn

ness, his was a courageous, inventive,
masterful spirit, which gave rather than
received, and was withal of a perfect kind-
ness and directness, love undefiled and
strong. The moment I became aware of
his presence, I felt him to be like one of
those wonderful, pure youths of an Italian
picture, whose whole mind is set on manful
things, untroubled by the love of woman,
and yet finding all the world intensely gra-
cious and beautiful, full of eager frankness,
even impatience, with long, slim, straight
limbs and close-curled hair. I knew him to
be the sort of being that painters and poetB
had been feeling after when they rejare-
sented or spoke of angels. And I could
not help laughing outright at the thought
of the meek, mild, statuesque draped
figures, with absurd wings and depressing
smiles, that encumbered pictures and
churches, with whom no human communica-
tion would be possible, and whose grave
and discomfiting glance would be fatal
to all ease or merriment. I recognised

The Child of the Dawn 21

in Amroth a mirthful soul, full of
humour and laughter, who could not be
shocked by any truth, or hold anything un-
comfortably sacred — though indeed he held
all things sacred with a kind of eagerness
that charmed me. Instead of meeting him
in dolorous pietistic mood, I met him, I re-
member, as at school or college one sud*
denly met a frank, smiling, high-spirited
youth or boy, who was ready at once to
take comradeship for granted, and walked
away with one from a gathering, with an
outrush of talk and plans for further meet-
ings. It was all so utterly unlike the sub-
dued and cautious and sensitive atmosphere
of devotion that it stirred us both, I was
aware, to a delicious kind of laughter. And
then came a swift interchange of thought,
which I must try to represent by speech,
though speech was none.

" I am glad to find you, Amroth," I
said. " I was just beginning to wonder if
I was not going to be lonely."

" Ah," he said, " one has what one desires

22 The Child of the Dawn

here; you had too much to see and learn
at first to want my company. And yet I
have been with you, pointing out a thousand
things, ever since you came here."

"Was it you,'' I said, "that have been
showing me all this? I thought I wa£
alone."

At which Amroth laughed again^ a laugh
full of content. " Yes," he said, " the crags
and the sunset — do you not remember? I
came down with you, carrying you like a
child in my arms, while you slept; and then
I saw you awake. You had to rest a long
time at first; you had had much to bear —
uncertainty — that is what tires one, evei
more than pain. And I have been telling
you things ever since, when you could
listen."

" Oh," I said, " I have a hundred things
to ask you; how strange it is to see so much
and understand so little! "

"Ask away," said Amroth, putting an
arm through mine.

" I was afraid," I said, " that it would

The Child of the Dawn 23

all be so different — like a catechism ^ Dost
thou believe — is this thy desire? ' But in-
stead it seems so entirely natural and
simple ! "

" Ah," he said, " that is how we bewilder
ourselves on earth. Why, it is hard to say !
But all the real things remain. It is all
just as surprising and interesting and
amusing and curious as it ever was: the
only things that are gone — for a time, that
is — are the things that are ugly and sad.
But they are useful too in their way, though
you have no need to think of them now.
Those are just the discipline, the training."

''But," I said, "what makes people so
different from each other down there — so
many people who are sordid, grubby,
quarrelsome, cruel, selfish, spiteful? Only
a few who are bold and kind — like you,
for instance? "

" No," he said, answering the thought
that rose in my mind, "of course I don't
mind — I like compliments as well as ever,
if they come naturally ! But don't you see

24 The Child of the Dawn

that all the little poky, sensual, mean, dis-
gusting lives are simply those of spirits
struggling to be free; we begin by being
enchained by matter at first, and then the
stream runs clearer. The divine things are
imagination and sympathy. That is the
secref

ly

Once I said:

"Which kind of people do you find it
hardest to help along? ''

" The young people," said Amroth, with
a smile.

"Youth!" I said. "Why, down below,
we think of youth as being so generous and
ardent and imitative! We speak of youth
as the time to learn, and form fine habits;
if a man is wilful and selfish in after-life,
we say that it was because he was too much
indulged in childhood — ^and we attach great
importance to the impressions of youth."

" That is quite right," said Amroth, " be-
cause the impressions of youth are swift and
keen ; but of course, here, age is not a ques-
tion of years or failing powers. The old,
here, are the wise and gracious and patient

and gentle; the youth of the spirit is stu-

25

26 The Child of the Dawn

pidity and unimaginativeness. On the one
hand are the stolid and placid, and on the
other are the brutal and cruel and selfish
and unrestrained-"

"You confuse me greatly/' I said;
" surely you do not mean that spiritual life
and progress are a matter of intellectual
energy? "

" No, not at all," said he; " the so-called
intellectual people are often the most stupid
and youngest of all. The intellect counts
for nothing : that is only a kind of dexterity,
a pretty game. The imagination is what
matters."

" Worse and worse ! " I said. " Does sal-
vation belong to poets and novelists? "

" No, no," said Amroth, " that is a game
too! The imagination I speak of is the
power of entering into other people's minds
and hearts, of putting yourself in their
place — of loving them, in fact. The more
jou know of people, the better chance there
is of loving them; and you can only find
your way into their minds by imaginative

The Child of the Dawn 27

sympathy, I will tell you a story which
will show you what I mean. There was
once a famous writer on earth, of whose
wisdom people spoke with bated breath.
Men went to see him with fear and rever-
ence, and came away, saying, ' How won-
derful I' And this man, in his age, was
waited upon by a little maid, an ugly, tired,
tiny creature. People used to say that they
wondered he had not a better servant. But
she knew all that he liked and wanted,
where his books and papers were, what was
good for him to do. She did not under-
stand a word of what he said, but she knew
both when he had talked too much, and
when he had not talked enough, so that his
mind was pent up in itself, and he became
cross and fractious. Now, in reality, the
little maid was one of the oldest and most
beautiful of spirits. She had lived many
lives, each apparently humbler than the last.
She never grumbled about her work, or
wanted to amuse herself. She loved the
silly flies that darted about her kitchen, or

28 The Child of the Dawn

brushed their black heads on the ceiling;
she loved the ivy tendrils that tapped on
her window in the breeze. She did not go
to church, she had no time for that; or if
she had gone, she would not have under-
stood what was said, though she would have
loved all the people there, and noticed how
they looked and sang. But the wise man
himself was one of the youngest and stupid-
est of spirits, so young and stupid that he
had to have a very old and wise spirit to
look after him. He was eaten up with
ideas and vanity, so that he had no time
to look at any one or think of anybody,
unless they praised him. He has a very
long pilgrimage before him, though he wrote
pretty songs enough, and his mortal body,
or one of them, lies in the Poets^ Corner of
the Abbey, and people come and put wreaths
there with tears in their eyes.''

" It is very bewildering,'' I said, " but I
see a little more than I did. It is all a
matter of feeling, then? But it seems hard
on people that they should be so dull and

The Child of the Dawn ^^

stupid about it all, — that the truth should
lie so close to their hand and yet be so
carefully concealed."

" Oh, they grow out of dulness ! " he said,
with a movement of his hand ; " that is wnat
experience does for us — it is always going
on ; we get widened and deepened. Why,"
he added, "I have seen a great man, as
they called him, clever and alert, who held
a high position in the State. He was laid
aside by a long and painful illness, so that
all his work was put away. He was brave
about it, too, I remember; but he used to
think to himself how sad and wasteful it
was, that when he was most energetic and
capable he should be put on i^e shelf —
all the fine work he might have done inter-
rupted ; all the great speeches he would have
made unuttered. But as a matter of fact,
he was then for the first time growing fast,
because he had to look into the minds and
hearts of all sorrowful and disappointed
people, and to learn that what we do mat-
ters so little, and that what we are matters

30 The Child of the Dawn

so much. When he did at last get back
to tlie world, people said, * What a sad
pity to see so fine a career spoilt ! ' But
out of all the years of all his lives, those
years had been his very best and richest,
when he sat half the day feeble in the sun,
and could not even look at the papers which
lay beside him, or when he woke in the grey
mornings, with the thought of another mis-
erable day of idleness and pain before him."

I said, " Then is it a bad thing to be
busy in the world, because it takes oflf your
mind from the things which matter? **

" No,'' said Amroth, " not a bad thing at
all: because two things are going on.
Partly th^jf#ramework of society and life is
being made, so that men are not ground
down into that sordid struggle, when little
experience is possible because of the drudg-
ery which clouds all the mind. Though
even that has its opportunities! And all
depends, for the individual, upon how he
is doing his work. If he has other people
in mind all the time, and does his work for

The Child of the Dawn 31

;hem, and not to be praised for it, then all
s well. But if he is thinking of his credit
md his position, then he does not grow at
ill; that is pomposity — a very youthful
:hing indeed; but the worst case of all is
f a man sees that the world must be helped
md made, and that one can win credit thus,
md so engages in work of that kind, and
ieals in all the jargon of it, about using
nfluence and living for others, when he is
•eally thinking of himself all the time, and
Tying to keep the eyes of the world upon
lim. But it is all growth really, though
sometimes, as on the beach when the tide
s coming in, the waves seem to draw back-
ward from the land, and poise i^fcemselves
n a crest of troubled water/'

"But is a great position in the world,"
[ said, "whether inherited or attained, a
langerous thing? '^

" Nothing is dangerous^ child,'' he said.
' You must put all that out of your mind.
8ut men in high posts and stations are
)ften not progressing evenly, only in great

32 The Child of the Dawn

jogs and starts. They learn very often,
with a sudden surprise, which is not always
painful, and sometimes is very beautiful and
sweet, that all the ceremony and pomp, the
great house, the bows and the smiles, mean
nothing at all — ^absolutely nothing, except
the chance, the opportunity of not being
taken in by them. That is the use of all
pleasures and all satisfactions — the frame
of mind which made the old king say, * Is
not this great Babylon, which I have
builded? ' — they are nothing but the work
of another class in the great school of life.
A great many people are put to school with
self-satisfaction, that they may know the
fine joy oj humiliation, the delight of learn-
ing that it is not eflfectiveness and applause
that matters, but love and peacefulness.
And the great thing is that we should feel
that we are growing, not in hardness or
indiflFerence, nor necessarily even in courage
or patience, but in our power to feel and
our power to suffer. As love multiplies,
suffering must multiply too. The very

The Child of the Dawn 33

Heart of God is full of infinite, joyful, hope-
ful suffering; the whole thing is so vast,
so slow, so quiet, that the end of suffering
is yet far off. But when we suffer, we climb
fast; the spirit grows old and wise in faith
and love; and suffering is the one thing we
cannot dispense with, because it is the con-
dition of our fullest and purest life/*

3

I SAID suddenly, " The joy of this place is
not the security of it, but the fact that one
has not to think about security. I am not
afraid of anything that may happen, and
there is no weariness of thought. One does
not think till one is tired, but till one has
finished thinking."

" Yes,'^ said Amroth, " that was the
misery of the poor body ! "

"And yet I used to think,'^ I said, "in
the old days that I was grateful to the body
for many pleasant things it gave me—
breathing the air, feeling the sun, eating
and drinking, games and exercise, an^ the
strange thing one called love."

"Yes," said Amroth, "all those things
have to be made pleasant, or to appear so;
otherwise no one could submit to the dis-
cipline at all; but of course the pleasure

34

The Child of the Dawn 35

only got in the way of the thought and of
the happiness; it was not what one saw,
tasted, smelt, felt, that one desired, but
the real thing behind it; even the purest
thing of all, the sight and contact of one
whom one loved, let us say, with no sensual
passion at all, but with a perfectly pure
lore; what a torment that was — desiring
something which one could not get, the real
fusion of feeling and thought! But the
poor body was always in the way then,
saying, ^Here am I — please me, amuse
me/ ''

" But then," I said, " what is the use of
all that? Why should the pure, clear, joy-
ful, sleepless life I now feel be tainted and
hampered and drugged by the body? I
don^t feel that I am losing anything by
losing the body/'

" No, not losing,'^ said Amroth, " but,
happy though you are, you are not gaining
things as fast now — it is your time of rest
and refreshment — ^but we shall go back,
both of us, to the other life again, when

36 The Child of the Dawn

the time comes : and the point is this, that
we have got to win the best things throng
trouble and struggle."

" But even so," I said, " there are many
things I do not understand — ^the child that
opens its eyes upon the world and closes
them again ; the young child that suffers and
dies, just when it is the darling of the home;
and at the other end of the scale, the help-
less, fractious invalid, or the old man who
lives in weariness, wakeful and tortured,
and who is glad just to sit in the sun, in-
different to every one and everything, past
feeling and hoping and thinking— or, worst
of all, the people with diseased minds, whose
pain makes them suspicious and malignant
What is the meaning of all this pain, which
seems to do people nothing but harm, and
makes them a burden to themselves and
others too? "

" Oh," said he, " it is difficult enough ; but
you must remember that we are all bound
up with the hearts and lives of others; the
child that dies in its helplessness has a

The Child of the Dawn 37

aning for its parents ; the child that lives
g enough to be the light of its home, that

a significance deep enough; and all
►se who have to tend and care for the
k, to lighten the burden and the sorrow

them, that has a meaning surely for all
icerned? The reason why we feel as we

about broken lives, why they seem so
erly purposeless, is because we have the
^portion so wrong. We do not really, in
t, believe in immortality, when we are
ind in the body — some few of us do, and
ny of us say that we do. But we do not
lise that the little life is but one in a
r chain of lives, that each spirit lives

ly times, over and over. There is no
ih thing as waste or sacrifice of life. The
J is meant to do just what it does, no
re and no less; bound in the body, it

seems so long or so short, so com-
te or so incomplete; but now and here

can see that the whole thing is so
Uess, so immense, that we think no

5 of entering life, say, for a few

38 The Child of the Dawn

days, or entering it for ninety years,
than we should think of counting one or
ninety water-drops in the river that pours
in a cataract over the lip of the rocks.
Where we do lose, in life, is in not taking
the particular experience, be it small or
great, to heart. We try to forget things, to
put them out of our minds, to banish them.
Of course it is very hard to do otherwise,
in a body so finite, tossed and whirled in
a stream so infinite; and thus we are hap-
piest if we can live very simply and quietly,
not straining to multiply our uneasy ac-
tivities, but just getting the most and the
best out of the elements of life as they come
to us. As we get older in spirit, we do
that naturally; the things that men call
ambitions and schemes are the signs of im-
maturity; and when we grow older, those
slip off us and concern us no more; while
the real vitality of feeling and emotion runs
ever more clear and strong."

"But," I said, "can one revive the old
lives at will? Can one look back into the

«

The Child of the Dawn 39

long range of previons lives? Is that
permitted? "

" Yes, of course it is permitted/' said
Amroth, smiling ; " there are no rules here ;
but one does not care to do it overmuch.
One is just glad it is all done, and that one
has learnt the lesson. Look back if you
like — there are all the lives behind you."

I had a curious sensation — I saw myself
suddenly a stalwart savage, strangely at-
tired for war, near a hut in a forest clear-
ing. I was going away somewhere; there
were other huts at hand; there was a fire,
in the side of a mound, where some women
seemed to be cooking something and wrang-
ling over it; the smoke went up into the
still air. A child came out of the hut, and
ran to me. I bent down and kissed it, and
it clung to me. I was sorry, in a dim way,
to be going out — for I saw other figures
armed too, standing about the clearing.
There was to be fighting that day, and
though I wished to fight, I thought I might
not return. But the mind of myself, as I

40 The Child of the Dawn

discerned it, was full of hurtful, cruel,
rapacious thoughts, and I was sad to think
that this could ever have been I.

" It is not very nice," said Amroth with

«

a smile; "one does not care to revive that!
You were young then, and had much before
you."

Another picture flashed into the mind.
Was it true? I was a woman, it seemed,
looking out of a window on the street in
a town with high, dark houses, strongly
built of stone : there was a towered gate at
a little distance, with some figures drawing
up sacks with a pulley to a door in the
gate. A man came up behind me, pulled
me roughly back, and spoke angrily; I an-
swered him fiercely and shrilly. The room
I was in seemed to be a shop or store ; there
were barrels of wine, and bags of com. I
felt that I was busy and anxious — it was
not a pleasant retrospect.

"Yet you were better then," said Am-
roth ; " you thought little of your drudgery,
and much of your children."

yo«, T had ^^a*^ ^biMroT^^ I saw. Their

The Child of the Dawn 41

names and appearance floated before me.
I had loved them tenderly. Had they passed
out of my life? I felt bewildered.

Amroth laid a hand on my arm and smiled
again. " No, you came near to some of
them again. Do you not remember another
life in which you loved a friend with a
strange love, that surprised you by its near-
ness? He had been your child long before;
and one never quite loses that."

I saw in a flash the other life he spoke
of. I was a student, it seemed, at some
university, where there was a boy of my
own age, a curious, wilful, perverse, tact-
less creature, always saying and doing the
wrong thing, for whom I had felt a curious
and unreasonable responsibility. I had al-
ways tried to explain him to other people,
to justify him; and he had turned to me
for help and companionship in a singular
way. I saw myself walking with him in
the country, expostulating, gesticulating;
and I saw him angry and perplexed. . . .
The vision vanished.

"But what becomes of all those whom

42 The Child of the Dawn

we have loved?" I said; " it cannot be as
if we had never loved them."

" No, indeed," said Amroth, " they are all
there or here ; bnt there lies one of the great
mysteries which we cannot yet attain to.
We shall be all brought together some time,
closely and perfectly; but even now, in the
world of matter, the spirit half remembers;
and when one is strangely and lovingly
drawn to another soul, when that love is
not of the body, and has nothing of pas-
sion in it, then it is some close ancient tie
reasserting itself. Do you not know how
old and remote some of our friendships
seemed — so much older and larger than
could be accounted for by the brief days
of companionship? That strange hunger
for the past of one we love is nothing but
the faint memory of what has been. In-
deed, when you have rested happily a little
longer, you will move farther afield, and
you will come near to spirits you have
loved. You cannot bear it yet, though they
are all about you; but one regains the

The Child of the Dawn 43

spiritual sense slowly after a life like
yours."

" Can I revisit," I said, " the scene of my
last life — see and know what those I loved
are doing and feeling? "

" Not yet," said Amroth ; " that would
not profit either you or them. The sorrow
of earth would not be sorrow, it would have
no cleansing power, if the parted spirit
could return at once. You do not guess,
either, how much of time has passed already
since you came here — it seems to you like
yesterday, no doubt, since you last suffered
death. To meet loss and sorrow upon earth,
without either comfort or hope, is one of
the finest of lessons. When we are there, we
must live blindly, and if we here could
make our presence known at once to the
friends we leave behind, it would be all too
easy. It is in the silence of death that its
drtue lies."

" Yes," I said, " I do not desire to return.
This is all too wonderful. It is the fresh-
ness and sweetness of it all that comes home

44 The Child of the Dawn

to me. I do not desire to think of the body,
and, strange to say, if I do think of it, the
times that I remember gratefully are those
when the body was faint and weary. The
old joys and triumphs, when one laughed
and loved and exulted, seem to me to have
something ugly about them, because one was
content, and wished things to remain for
ever as they were. It was the longing for
something different that helped me; the
acquiescence was the shame."

VI

)nb day I said to Amroth, " What a com-
fort it is to find that there is no religion
lere ! ''

" I know what you mean," he said. " I
think it is one of the things that one won-
iers at most, to remember into how very
small and narrow a thing religion was made,
and how much that was religious was never
supposed to be so."

" Yes," I said, " as I think of it now, it
fieems to have been a game played by a
few players, a game with a great many
rules."

"Yes," he said, "it was a game often
enough; but of course the mischief of it
was, that when it was most a game it most
pretended to be something else — to contain
the secret of life and all knowledge."

45

46 The Child of the Dawn

" I used to think," I said, " that religion
was like a noble and generous boy with the
lyrical heart of a poet, made by some sad
chance into a king, surrounded by obeeqni-
ous respect and i)omp and etiquette, bound
by a hundred ceremonious rules, forbidden
to do this and that, taught to think that
his one duty was to be magnificently at
tired, to acquire graceful arts of posture
and courtesy, subtly and gently prevented
from obeying natural and simple impulses,
made powerless — a crowned slave; so that,
instead of being the freest and sincerest
thing in the world, it became the prisoner
of respectability and convention, just a part
of the social machine."

"That was only one side of it," said
Amroth. " It was often where it was least
supposed to be."

"Yes," I said, "as far as I resent any-
thing now, I resent the conversion of so
much religion from an inspiring force into
a repressive force. One learnt as a child
to think of it, not as a great moving flood

The Child of the Dawn 47

of energy and joy, but as an awful power
apart from life, rejoicing in petty restric-
tions, and mainly concerned with creating
an unreal atmosphere of narrow piety,
hostile to natural talk and laughter and
freedom. God's aid was invoked, in child-
hood, mostly when one was naughty and
disobedient, so that one grew to think of
Him as grim, severe, irritable, anxious to
interfere. What wonder that one lost all
wish to meet God and all natural desire to
know Him! One thought of Him as im-
possible to please except by behaving in a
way in which it was not natural to behave ;
and one thought of religion as a stern and
dreadful process going on somewhere, like
a law-court or a prison, which one had to
keep clear of if one could. Yet I hardly
see how, in the interests of discipline, it
could have been avoided. If only one could
have begun at the other end ! "

" Yes," said Amroth, ^^ but that is because
religion has fallen so much into the hands
of the wrong people, and is grievously mis-

48 The Child of the Dawn

represented. It has too often come to be
identified, as you say, with human law, as
a power which leaves one severely alone, if
one behaves oneself, and which ponid
harshly and mechanically if one outsteps
the limit. It comes into the world as a
great joyful motive; and then it becomes
identified with respectability, and it is sad
to think that it is simply from the fact that
it has won the confidence of the world that
it gains its awful i)ower of silencing and
oppressing. It becomes hostile to frankness
and independence, and puts a premium on
caution and submissiveness ; but that is the
misuse of it and the degradation of it; and
religion is still the most pure and beautiful
thing in the world for all that; the doctrine
itself is fine and true in a way, if one can
view it without impatience; it upholds the
right things ; it all makes for peace and order,
and even for humility and just kindliness;
it insists, or tries to insist, on the fact that
property and position and material things
do not master, ^nd that quality and method

?.

The Child of the Dawn 49

do matter. Of course it is terribly dis-
torted, and gets into the hands of the wrong
people — the people who want to keep things
as they are. Now the Gospel, as it first
came, was a perfectly beautiful thing — the
idea that one must act by tender impulse,
that one must always forgive, and forget,
and love ; that one must take a natural joy
in the simplest things, find every one and
everything interesting and delightful . . .
the perfectly natural, just, good-humoured,
oncalculating life — that was the idea of it ;
and that one was not to be superior to
the hard facts of the world, not to try to
put sorrow or pain out of sight, but to live
eagerly and hopefully in them and through
them ; not to try to school oneself into hard-
ness or indifference, but to love lovable
things, and not to condemn or despise the
unlovable. That was indeed a message out
of the very heart of God. But of course all
the acrid divisions and subdivisions of it
come, not from itself, but from the material
part of the world, that determines to traffic

50 The Child of the Dawn

with the beautiful secret, and make it serve
its turu. I^ut there are plenty of tmc
souls within it all, true teachers, faithful
learners — and the world cannot do with
it yet, though it is strangely fettered i
bound. Indeed, men can never do without
it, because the spiritual force is tiiere; it
is full of poetry and mystery, that ageless
brotherhood of saints and true-hearted dis-
ciples; but one has to learn that many that
claim its powers have them not, while masy
who are outside all organisations have the
secret."

" Yes," I said, " all that is true and good;
it is the exclusive claim and not the in-
clusive which one regrets. It is the voice
which says, ^ Accept my exact faith, or you
have no part in the inheritance,^ which is
wrong. The real voice of religion is that
which says, ^You are my brother and my
sister, though you know it not.' And if
one says, ^ We are all at fault, we are all
far from the truth, but we live as best we
can, looking for the larger hope and for

The Child of the Dawn 5.1

lie dawn of love/ that is the secret. The

,crament of God is offered and eaten at

lany a social meal, and the Spirit of Love

Inds utterance in quiet words from smiling

lips. One cannot teach by harsh precept,

only by desirable example; and the worst

of the correct profession of religion is that

it is often little more than taking out a

licence to disapprove."

" Yes," said Amroth, " you are very near
a great truth. The mistake we make is
like the mistake so often made on earth in
matters of human government — the oppos-
ing of the individual to the State, as if the
State were something above and different
to the individual — like the old thought of
the Spirit moving on the face of the waters.
The individual is the State; and it is the
same with the soul and God. God is not
above the soul, seeing and judging, apart
in isolation. The Spirit of God is the spirit
of humanity, the spirit of admiration, the
spirit of love. It matters little what the soul
admires and loves, whether it be a flower or

52 The Child of the Dawn

a mountain, a face or a canse, a gem or a
doctrine. It is that wonderful power tbat
the current of the soul has of setting to-
wards something that is beautiful : the need
to admire, to worship, to love. A reffjaamt
of soldiers in the street, a procesBion of
priests to a sanctuary, a march of dis-
ordered women clamouring for their riglhts
— ^if the idea thrills you, if it uplifts yon,
it matters nothing whether other people
dislike or despise or deride it — it is the
voice of God for you. We must advance
from what is merely brilliant to what is
true ; and though in the single life many a
man seems to halt at a certain point, to
Iiave tied up his little packet of admirations
once and for all, there are other lives wh»e
he will pass on to further loves> his pas-
sion growing more intense and pure. We
are not limited by our circle, by our genera-
tion, by our age; and the things which
youthful spirits are divining and proclaim-
ing as great and wonderful discoveries, are
often being practised and done by silent and

The Child of the Dawn 53

humble souls. It is not the concise or im-
pressive statement of a truth that matters,
it is the intensity of the inner impulse
towards what is high and true which
differentiates. The more we live by that,
the less are we inclined to argue and dis-
pute about it. The base, the impure desire
is only the imperfect desire ; if it is gratified,
it reveals its imperfections, and the soul
knows that not there can it stay; but it
must have faced and tested everything. If
the soul, out of timidity and convention-
ality, says ^ No ' to its eager impulses, it
halts upon its pilgrimage. Some of the
most grievous and shameful lives on earth
have been fruitful enough in reality. The
reason why we mourn and despond over
them is, again, that we limit our hope to
the single life. There is time for every-
thing ; we must not be impatient. We must
despair of nothing and of no one; the true
life consists not in what a man's reason
approves or disapproves, not in what he
does or says, but in what he sees. It is

54 The Child of the Dawn

useless to explain things to sonis ; they mnst
experience them to apprehend them. The
one treachery is to speak of mistakes as
irreparable, and of sins as unforgivable.
The sin against the Spirit is to doubt the
Spirit, and the sin against life is not to
use it generously and freely ; we are happiest
if we love others well enough to give our
life to them ; but it is better to use life for
ourselves than not to use it at alL"

VII

One day I said to Amroth, " Are there no
rules of life here? It seems almost too
good to be true, not to be found fault with
and censured and advised and blamed."

" Oh," said Amroth, laughing, " there are
plenty of rules ^ as you call them; but one
feels them, one is not told them; it is like
breathing and seeing."

"Yes," I replied, "yet it was like that,
too, in the old days; the misery was when
one suddenly discovered that when one was
acting in what seemed the most natural way
possible, it gave pain and concern to some
one whom one respected and even loved.
One knew that one's action was not wrong,
and yet one desired to please and satisfy
one's friends ; and so one fell back into con-
ventional ways, not because one liked them

but because other people did, and it was

55

56 The Child of the Dawn

not worth while making a fuss — ^it was a
sort of cowardice, I suppose? "

" Not quite," said Amroth ; " you were
more on the right lines than the people who
interfered with you, no doubt ; but of course
the truth is that our principles ought to
be used, like a stick, to support ourselves,
not like a rod to beat other people witL
The most difficult i)eople to teach, as you
will see hereafter, are the self-righteous peo-
ple, whose lives are really pure and good,
but who allow their preferences about
amusements, occupations, ways of life, to
become matters of principle. The worst
temptation in the world is the habit of in-
fluence and authority, the desire to direct
other lives and to conform them to ontfs
own standard. The only way in which we
can help other people is by loving them ; by
frightening another out of something which
he is apt to do and of which one does not
approve, one effects absolutely nothing: sin
f»annot be scared away; the spirit must
-^a^^ to desire to cast it away, because it

The Child of the Dawn 57

sees that goodness is beautiful and fine ; and
this can only be done by example, never by
precept"

" But it is the entire absence of both that

«

puzzles me here," I said. " Nothing to do
and a friend to talk to ; it 's a lazy business,
I think."

Amroth looked at me with amusement.
" It 's a sign," he said, " if you feel that,
that you are getting rested, and ready to
move on; but you will be very much sur-
prised when you know a little more about
the life here. You are like a baby in a
cradle at present; when you come to enter
one of our communities here, you will find
it as complicated a business as you could
wish. Part of the diflftculty is that there
are no rules, to use your own phrase. It is
real democracy, but it is not complicated
by any questions of property, which is the
thing that clogs all political progress in the
world below. There is nothing to scheme
for, no ambitions to gratify, nothing to gain
at the Qxpense of others ; the only thing that

58 The Child of the Dawn

matters is one's personal relation to others;
and this is what makes it at once so simple
and so complex. But I do not think it is
of any use to tell you all this ; yon will see
it in a flashy when the time comes. But it
may be as well for you to remember that
there will be no one to command yon or
compel you or advise you. Your own
heart and spirit will be your only guides.
There is no such thing as compulsion or
force in heaven. Nothing can be done to
you that you do not choose or allow to be
done."

"Yes," I said, "it is the blessed and
beautiful sense of freedom from all ties
and influences and fears that is so utterly
blissful."

" But this is not all," said Amroth, shak-
ing his head with a smile. " This is a time
of rest for you, but things are very diflferent
elsewhere. When you come to enter heaven
itself, you will be constantly surprised.
There are labour and fear and sorrow to
be faced; and you must not think it is a

The Child of the Dawn 59

place for drifting pleasantly along. The
moral struggle is the same — indeed it is
fiercer and stronger than ever, because there
is no bodily languor or fatigue to distract.
There are choices to be made, duties to per-
form, evil to be faced. The bodily tempta-
tions are absent, but there is still that which
lay behind the bodily frailties — curiosity,
love of sensation, excitement, desire; the
strong duality of nature — the knowledge of
duty on the one hand and the indolent
shrinking from performance — that is all
there; there is the same sense of isolation,
and the same need for patient endeavour
as upon earth. All that one gets is a cer-
tain freedom of movement ; one is not bound
to places and employments by the material
ties of earth; but you must not think that
it is all to be easy and straightforward.
We can each of us by using our wills shorten
our probation, by not resisting influences,
by putting our hearts and minds in unison
with the will of God for us; and that is
easier in heaven than upon earth, because

6o The Child of the Dawn

there is less to distract us. But on the
other hand^ there is more temptation to
drift, because there are no material conse-
quences to stimulate us. There are many
people on earth who exercise a sort of prac-
tical virtue simply to avoid material incon-
veniences, while there is no such motive in
heaven; I say all this not to disturb your
present tranquillity, which it is your duty
now to enjoy, but just to prepare you. You
must be prepared for eflfort and for m-
deavour, and even for strife. You must
use right judgment, and, above all, common
sense; one does not get out of the reach
of that in heaven ! '^

•*

VIII

These are only some of the many talks I
had with Amroth. They ranged over a
great many subjects and thoughts. What
I cannot indicate, however, is the lightness
and freshness of them; and above all, their
entire frankness and amusingness. There
were times when we talked like two children,
revived old simple adventures of life — he had
lived far more largely and fully than I had
done — and I never tired of hearing the tales
of his old lives, so much more varied and
wonderful than my own. Sometimes we
merely told each other stories out of our
imaginations and hearts. We even played
games, which I cannot describe, but they
were like the games of earth. We seemed
at times to walk and wander together; but
I had a sense all this time that I was, so

6i

62 The Child of the Dawn

to speak, in hospital, being tended and cared
for, and not allowed to do anything weari-
some or demanding effort. But I became
more and more aware of other spirits about
me, like birds that chirp and twitter in
the ivy of a tower, or in the thick bushes
of a shrubbery. Amroth told me one day
that I must prepare for a great change soon,
and I found myself wondering what it would
be like, half excited about it, and half
afraid, unwilling as I was to lose the sweet
rest, and the dear companionship of a friend
who seemed like the crown and sum of all
hopes of friendship. Amroth became utterly
dear to me, and it was a joy beyond all
joys to feel his happy and smiling nature
bent upon me, hour by hour, in sympathy
and understanding and love. He said to
me laughingly once that I had much of
earth about me yet, and that I must soon
learn not to bend my thoughts so exclusively
one way and on one friend.

" Yes," I said, " I am not fit for heaven
yet! I believe I am jealous; I cannot bear

The Child of the Dawn 63

to think that you will leave me, or that any
other soul deserves your attention."

" Oh," he said lightly, " this is my busi-
ness and delight now — but you will soon
have to do for others what I am doing for
you. You like this easy life at present, but
you can hardly imagine how interesting it
is to have some one given you for your own,
as you were given to me. It is the delight
of motherhood and fatherhood in one; and
when I was allowed to take you away out
of the room where you lay — I admit it
was not a pleasant scene — I felt just like
a child who is given a kitten for its very
own."

" Well," I said, " I have been a very satis-
factory pet — I have done little else but
purr." I felt his eyes upon me in a wonder-
ful nearness of love; and then I looked up
and I saw that we were not alone.

It was then that I first perceived that
there could be grief in heaven. I say " first
perceived," but I had known it all along.
But by Amroth's gentle power that had been

64 The Child of the Dawn

for a time kept away from me, that I might
rest and rejoice.

The form before me was that of a very
young and beautiful woman — so beautiful
that for a moment all my thought seemed to
be concentrated upon her. But I saw, too,
that all was not well with her. She was not
at peace with herself, or her surroundings.
In her great wide eyes there was a look of
pain, and of rebellious pain. She was at-
tired in a robe that was a blaze of colour;
and when I wondered at this, for it was un-
like the clear hues, pearly grey and gold,
and soft roseate light that had hitherto
encompassed me, the voice of Amroth an-
swered my unuttered question, and said,
" It is the image of her thought.'' Her slim
white hands moved aimlessly over the robe,
and seemed to finger the jewels which
adorned it. Her lips were parted, and any-
thing more beautiful than the pure curves
of her chin and neck I had seldom seen,
though she seemed never to be still, as
Anif'^fh was «»^.iiU hut to move restlessly and

The Child of the Dawn 65

wearily about. I knew by a sort of intui-
tion that she was unaware of Amroth and
only aware of myself. She seemed startled
and surprised at the sight of me, and I
wondered in what form I appeared to her;
in a moment she spoke, and her voice was
low and thrilling.

"I am so glad," she said in a half-
courteous, half -distracted way, "to find
some one in the place to whom I can speak.
I seem to be always moving in a crowd, and
yet to see no one — they are afraid of me,
I think ; and it is not what I expected, not
what I am used to. I am in need of help,
I feel, and yet I do not know what sort
of help it is that I want May I stay with
you a little? "

" Why, yes," I said ; " there is no question
of * may ' here."

She came up to me with a sort of proud
confidence, and looked at me fixedly.
"Yes," she said, "I see that I can trust
you ; and I am tired of being deceived ! "
Then she added with a sort of pettishness.

66 The Child of the Dawn

" I have nowhere to go, nothing to do — it
is all dull and cold. On earth it was just
the opposite. I had only too much att^-
tion and love. . . . Oh, yes," she added
with a strange glance, "it was what you
would probably call sinful. The only man
I ever loved did not care for me, and I
was loved by many for whom I did not
care. Well, I had my pleasures, and I sup-
pose I must pay for them. I do not com-
plain of that. But I am determined not to
give way: it is unjust and cruel. I never
had a chance. I was always brought up to
be admired from the first. We were rich
at my home, and in society — ^you under-
stand? I made what was called a good
match, and I never cared for my husband,
but amused myself with other people; and
it was splendid while it lasted: then all
kinds of horrible things happened — scenes,
explanations, a lawsuit — it makes me
shudder to remember it all ; and then I was
ill, I suppose, and suddenly it was all over,
and I was alone, with a feeling that I must

The Child of the Dawn 67

try to take up with all kinds of tiresome
things — all the things that bored me most.
But now it may be going to be better; you
can tell me where I can find people, per-
haps? I am not quite unpresentable, even
here? No, I can see that in your face.
Well, take me somewhere, show me some-
thing, find something for me to do in this
deadly place. I seem to have got into a
perpetual sunset, and I am so sick of it all."

I felt very helpless before this beautiful
creature who seemed so troubled and dis-
contented. " No,'' said the voice of Amroth
beside me, " it is of no use to talk ; let her
talk to you; let her make friends with you
if she can.''

" That 's better," she said, looking at me.
" I was afraid you were going to be grave
and serious. I felt for a minute as if I
was going to be confirmed."

" No," I said, " you need not be disturbed ;
nothing will be done to you against your
wish. One has but to wish here, or to be
willing, and the right thing happens."

68 The Child of the Dawn

She came close to me as I said this, and
said, "Well, I think I shall like you, if
only you can promise not to be serious."
Then she turned, and stood for a moment
disconsolate, looking away from me.

All this while the atmosphere around me
had been becoming lighter and clearer, as
though a mist were rising. Suddenly Am-
roth said, " You will have to go with her
for a time, and do what you can. I must
leave you for a little, but I shall not be
far off; and if you need me, I shall be at
hand. But do not call for me unless you
are quite sure you need me.'' He gave me
a hand-clasp and a smile, and was gona

Then, looking about me, I saw at last
that I was in a place. Lonely and bare
though it was, it seemed to me very beauti-
ful. It was like a grassy upland, with rocky
heights to left and right. They were most
delicate in outline, those crags, like the
crags in an old picture, with sharp, smooth
curves, like a fractured crystal. They
^oampfi tf\ K41 nf f ?rpamy stone, and the

The Child of the Dawn 69

shadows fell blue and distinct. Down be-
low was a great plain full of trees and
waters, all very dim. A path, worn lightly
in the grass, lay at my feet, and I knew
that we must descend it. The girl with me
— I will call her Cynthia — was gazing at it
with delight. " Ah,'' she said, " I can see
clearly now. This is something like a real
place, instead of mist and light. We can
find people down here, no doubt; it looks
inhabited out there." She pointed with her
hand, and it seemed to me that I could
see spires and towers and roofs, of a fine
and airy architecture, at the end of a long
horn of water which lay very blue among
the woods of the plain. It puzzled me, be-
cause I had the sense that it was all un-
real, and, indeed, I soon perceived that it
was the girPs own thought that in some way
affected mine. " Quick, let us go," she said ;
" what are we waiting for? "

The descent was easy and gradual. We
came down, following the path, over the
hill-shoulders. A stream of clear water

70 The Child of the Dawn

dripped among stones; it all brought back
to me with an intense delight the recoUec-
tion of long days spent among snch hills
in holiday times on earth, but all without
regret; I only wished that an old and dear
friend of mine, with whom I had often gone,
might be with me. He had quitted life be-
fore me, and I knew somehow or hoped that
I should before long see him ; but I did not
wish things to be otherwise; and, indeed, I
had a strange interest in the fretful, silly,
lovely girl with me, and in what lay before
us. She prattled on, and seemed to be re-
covering her spirits and her confidence at
the sights around us. If I could but find
anything that would draw her out of her
restless mood into the peace of the morn-
ing! She had a charm for me, though
her impatience and desire for amusement
seemed uninteresting enough; and I found
myself talking to her as an elder brother
might, with terms of familiar endearment,
which she seemed to be grateful for. It was
strange in a way, and yet it all appeared

The Child of the Dawn 7 1

natural. The more we drew away from the
hills, the happier she became. "Ah," she
said once, " we have got out of that hateful
place, and now perhaps we may be more
comfortable,'' — and when we came down be-
side the stream to a grove of trees, and
saw something which seemed like a road be-
neath us, she was delighted. " That 's more
like it,'' she said, "and now we may find
some real people perhaps," — she turned to
me with a smile — "though you are real
enough too, and very kind to me; but I
still have an idea that you are a clergyman,
and are only waiting your time to draw
a moral."

IX

Now before I go on to tell the tale of what
happened to us in the valley there were two
very curious things that I observed or began
to observe.

The first was that I could not really see
into the girPs thought. I became aware
that though I could see into the thought
of Amroth as easily and directly as one can
look into a clear sea-pool, with all its
rounded pebbles and its swaying fringes of
seaweed, there was in the girPs mind a
centre of thought to which I was not ad-
mitted, a fortress of personality into which
I could not force my way. More than that.
When she mistrusted or suspected me, there
came a kind of cloud out from the central
thought, as if a turbid stream were poured
into the sea-pool, which obscured her

chough^s fT'om me, though when she came

72

The Child of the Dawn 73

to know me and to trust me, as she did
later, the cloud was gradually withdrawn;
and I perceived that there must be a perfect
sacrifice of will, an intention that the mind
should lie open and unashamed before the
thought of one's friend and companion, be-
fore the vision can be complete. With Am-
roth I desired to conceal nothing, and he
had no concealment from me. But with the
girl it was different. There was something
in her heart that she hid from me, and by
no effort could I penetrate it; and I saw
then that there is something at the centre
of the. soul which is our very own, and into
which God Himself cannot even look, un-
less we desire that He should look; and
even if we desire that He should look into
our souls, if there is any timidity or shame
OP shrinking about us, we cannot open our
souls to Him. I must speak about this
later, when the great and wonderful day
came to me, when I beheld God and was
beheld by Him. But now, though when the
girl trusted me I could see much of her

74 The Child of the Dawn

thought, the inmost cell of it was still
hidden from me.

And then, too, I perceived another
strange thihg; that the landscape in which
we walked was very plain to me, but that
she did not see the same things that I saw.
With me, the landscape was such as I had
loved most in my last experience of life;
it was a land to me like the English hill-
country which I loved the best; little fields
of pasture mostly, with hedgerow ashes and
sycamores, and here and there a clear
stream of water running by the wood-ends.
There were buildings, too, low white-walled
farms, roughly slated, much-weathered, with
evidences of homely life, byre and bam and
granary, all about them. These sloping
fields ran up into high moorlands and little
grey crags, with the trees and thickets grow-
ing in the rock fronts. I could not think
that people lived in these houses and prac-
tised agriculture, though I saw with sur-
prise and pleasure that there were animals
about, horses and sheep grazing, and dogs

The Child of the Dawn 75

that frisked in and out. I had always be-
lieved and hoped that animals had their
share in the inheritance of light, and now
I thought that this was a proof that it was
indeed so, though I could not be sure of
it, because I realised that it might be but
the thoughts of my mind taking shape, for,
as I say, I was gradually aware that the
girl did not see what I saw. To her it was
a different scene, of some southern country,
because she seemed to see vineyards, and
high-walled lanes, hill-crests crowded with
houses and crowned with churches, such as
one sees at a distance in the Campagna,
where the plain breaks into chestnut-clad
hills. But this difference of sight did not
make me feel that the scene was in any de-
gree unreal; it was the idea of the landscape
which we loved, its pretty associations and
familiar features, and the mind did the rest,
translating it all into a vision of scenes
which had given us joy on earth, just as
we do in dreams when we are in the body,
when the sleeping mind creates sights which

76 The Child of the Dawn

give us pleasure, and yet we have no know-
ledge that we are ourselves creating thenu
So we walked together, until I perceived
that we were drawing near to the town
which we had discerned.

And now we became aware of people go-
ing to and fro. Sometimes they stopped
and looked upon us with smiles, and even
greetings; and sometimes they went past
absorbed in thought.

Houses appeared, both small wayside
abodes and larger mansions with sheltered
gardens. What it all meant I hardly knew;
but just as we have perfectly decided tastes
on earth as to what sort of a house we like
and why we like it, whether we prefer high,
bright rooms, or rooms low and with sub-
dued light, so in that other country the
mind creates what it desires.

Presently the houses grew thicker, and
soon we were in a street — the town to my
eyes was like the little towns one sees in
the Cotswold country, of a beautiful golden
stone, with deep plinths and cornices, with

The Child of the Dawn 77

older and simpler buildings interspersed.
My companion became strangely excited,
glancing this way and that. And presently,
as if we were certainly expected, there came
up to us a kindly and grave person, who
welcomed us formally to the place, and said
a few courteous words about his pleasure
that we should have chosen to visit it.

I do not know how it was, but I did
not wholly trust our host. His mind was
hidden from me ; and indeed I began to have
a sense, not of evil, indeed, or of oppres-
sion, but a feeling that it was not the place
appointed for me, but only where my busi-
ness was to lie for a season. A group of
people came up to us and welcomed my
companion with great cheerfulness, and she
was soon absorbed in talk.

Now before I come to tell this next part
of my story, there are several things which
seem in want of explanation. I speak of
people as looking old and young, and of
there being relations between them such as
fatherly and motherly, sonlike and lover-
like. It bewildered me at first, but I came
to guess at the truth. It would seem that
in the further world spirits do preserve for
a long time the characteristics of the age
at which they last left the earth; but I saw
no very young children anywhere at first,
though I came afterwards to know what
befell them. It seemed to me that^ in the
first place I visited, the only spirits I saw
were of those who had been able to make
a deliberate choice of how they would live
in the world and which kind of desires they

would serve; it is very hard to say when

78

The Child of the Dawn 79

this choice takes place in the world below,
but I came to believe that, early or late,
there does come a time when there is an
opening out of two paths before each hu-
man soul, and when it realises that a choice
must be made. Sometimes this is made
early in life; but sometimes a soul drifts
on, guileless in a sense, though its life may
be evil and purposeless, not looking back-
wards or forwards, but simply acting as its
nature bids it act. What it is that decides
the awakening of the will I hardly know;
it is all a secret growth, I think; but the
older that the spirit is, in the sense of
spiritual experience, the earlier in mortal
life that choice is made; and this is only
another proof of one of the things which
Amroth showed me, that it is, after all,
imagination which really makes the dif-
ference between souls, and not intellect or
shrewdness or energy; all the real things
of life — sympathy, the power of entering
into fine relations, however simple they may
be, with others,^ loyalty, patience, devotion,

8o The Child of the Dawn

goodness — seem to grow out of this power
of imagination; and the reason why the
souls of whom I am going to speak were
so content to dwell where they were, was
simply that they had no imagination be-
yond, but dwelt happily among the delights
which upon earth are represented by sound
and colour and scent and comeliness and
comfort. This was a perpetual surprise to
me, because I saw in these fine creatures
such a faculty of delicate perception, that I
could not help believing again and again
that their emotions were as deep and varied
too; but I found little by little, that they
were all bent, not on loving, and therefore
on giving themselves away to what they
loved, but in gathering in perceptions and
sensations, and finding their delight in
them; and I realised that what lies at the
root of the artistic nature is its deep and
vital indifference to anything except what
can directly give it delight, and that these
souls, for all their amazing subtlety and
discrimination, had very little hold on life

The Child of the Dawn 8i

at all, except on its outer details and super-
ficial harmonies; and that they were all
very young in experience, and like shallow
waters, easily troubled and easily appeased ;
and that therefore they were being dealt
with like children, and allowed full scope
for all their little sensitive fancies, until
the time should come for them to go further
yet. Of course they were one degree older
than the people who in the world had been
really immersed in what may be called
solid interests and serious pursuits — sci-
ence, politics, organisation, warfare, com-
merce — ^all these spirits were very youthful
indeed, and they were, I suppose, in some
very childish nursery of God. But what
first bewildered me was the finding of the
earthly proportions of things so strangely
reversed, the serious matters of life so
utterly set aside, and so much made of the
things which many people take no sort of
trouble about, as companionships and affec-
tions, which are so often turned into a
matter of mere propinquity and circum-

6

82 The Child of the Dawn

stance. But of this I shall have to speak
later in its place.

Now it is difficult to describe the time I
spent in the land of delight, because it was
all so unlike the life of the world, and yet
was so strangely like it. There was work
going on there, I found, but the nature of
it I could not discern, because tiiat was
kept hidden from me. Men and women ex-
cused themselves from our company, saying
they must return to their work ; but most of
the time was spent in leisurely converse
about things which I confess from the first
did not interest me. There was much wit
and laughter, and there were constant
games and assemblies and amusements.
There were feasts of delicious things, music,
dramas. There were books read and dis-
cussed; it was just like a very cultivated
and civilised society. But what struck me
about the people there was that it was all
7ery restless and highly-strung, a perpetual
tasting of pleasures, which somehow never
ni^qsH ThPT*^ wp'"* two people there who

The Child of the Dawn 83

interested me most. One was a very hand-
some and courteous man, who seemed to
desire my company, and spoke more freely
than the rest; the other a young man, who
was very much occupied with the girl, my
companion, and made a great friendship
with her. The elder of the two, for I must
give them names, shall be called Charmides,
which seems to correspond with his stately
charm, and the younger may be known as
Lucius.

I sat one day with Charmides, listening
to a great concert of stringed and wind in-
struments, in a portico which gave on a
large sheltered garden. He was much ab-
sorbed in the music, which was now of a
brisk and measured beauty, and now of a
sweet seriousness which had a very luxuri-
ous effect upon my mind. " It is wonder-
ful to me," said Charmides, as the last
movement drew to a close of liquid melody,
" that these sounds should pass into the
heart like wine, heightening and uplift-
ing the thought — there is nothing so beauti-

84 The Child of the Dawn

ful as the discrimination of mood with
which it affects one^ weighing one delicate
phrase against another, and finding all so
perfect."

^^ Yes/' I said, ^^ I can nnderstand tiiat;
but I must confess that there seems to me
something wanting in the melodies of this
place. The music which I loved in the old
days was the music which spoke to the soul
of something further yet and unattainable;
but here the music seems to have attained
its end^ and to have fulfilled its own
desire."

" Yes," said Charmides, " I know that you
feel that ; your mind is very clear to m^ up
to a certain point; and I have sometimes
wondered why you spend your time h«e,
because you are not one of us^ as yonr friend
Cynthia is."

I glanced, as he spoke, to where Cynthia
sat on a great carved settle among cush-
ions, side by side with Lucius, whispering
to him with a smile.

" No/' T said. " T ilo not think I have

The Child of the Dawn 85

found my place yet, but I am here, I think,
for a purpose, and I do not know what that
purpose is/^

" Well,^^ he said, " I have sometimes won-
dered myself. I feel that you may have
something to tell me, some message for me.
I thought that when I first saw you; but
I cannot quite perceive what is in your
mind, and I see that you do not wholly
know what is in mine. I have been here
for a long time, and I have a sense that
I do not get on, do not move; and yet I

Lve lived in extreme joy and contentment,
except that I dread to return to life, as I
know I must return. I have lived often,
and always in joy — but in life there are
constantly things to endure, little things
wrhich just ruffle the serenity of soul which
[ desire, and which I may fairly say I here
snjoy. I have loved beauty, and not in-
temperately ; and there have been other peo-
ple — men and women — whom I have loved,
in a sense ; but the love of them has always

emed a sort of interruption to the life I

86 The Child of the Dawn

desired, something disordered and strained,
which hurt me, and kept me away from the
peace I desired — from the fine weighing of
sounds and colours, and the pleasure of
beautiful forms and lines; and I dread to
return to life, because one caimot avoid
love and sorrow, and mean troubles^ which
waste the spirit in vain."

" Yes," I said, " I can understand what
you feel very well, because I too have known
what it is to desire to live in i)eace and
beauty, not to be disturbed or fretted; but
the reason, I think, why it is dangerous^ is
not because life becomes too easy. That
is not the danger at all — life is never easy,
whatever it is! But the danger is that it
grows too solemn! One is apt to become
like a priest, always celebrating holy mys-
teries, always in a vision, with no time for
laughter, and disputing, and quarrelling,
and being silly and playing. It is the poor
body again that is amiss. It is like the
camel, poor thing; it groans and weeps, but
t oroAs* on riTi/> nf\r\n(\f live wholly in a

The Child of the Dawn 87

vision; and life does not become more sim-
ple so, but more complicated, for one's time
and energy are spent in avoiding the sordid
and the tiresome things which one cannot
and must not avoid. I remember, in an ill-
ness which I had, when I was depressed and
fanciful, a homely old doctor said to me,
^ Don't be too careful of yourself: don't
think you can't bear this and that — go out
to dinner — eat and drink rather too much ! '
It seemed to be coarse advice, but it was /
wise."

" Yes," said Charmides, " it was wise; but
it is difficult to feel it so at the time. I
wonder ! I think perhaps I have made the
mistake of being too fastidious. But it
seemed so fine a goal that one had in sight,
to chasten and temper all one's thoughts
to what was beautiful — to judge and dis-
tinguish, to choose the right tones and har-
monies, to be always rejecting and refining.
It had its sorrows, of course. How often in
the old days one came in contact with some
gracious and beautiful personality, and

88 The Child of the Dawn

flung oneself into close relations; and then
one began to see this and that flaw. There
were lapses in tact, petulances, littlenesses;
one's friend did not rightly use his beauti-
ful mind ; he was jealous, suspicions, trivial,
petty; it ended in disillusionment. Instead
of taking him as a passenger on one's ves-
sel, and determining to live at peace, to over-
look, to accommodate, one began to watch
for an opportunity of putting him down
courteously at some stopping-place ; and in-
stead of being grateful for his friendship,
one was vexed with him for disappointing
one. We must speak more of these things.
I seem to feel the want of something com-
moner and broader in my thoughts; but in
this place it is hard to change."

" Will you forgive me then," I said, " if
I ask you plainly what this place is? It
seems very strange to me, and yet I think
I have been here before."

Charmides looked at me with a smile.
" It has been called," he said, " by many
usjly pani<^ ivd men havft been unreason-

The Child of the Dawn 89

bly afraid of it. It is the place of satisfied
lesire, and, as you see, it is a comfortable
)lace enough. The theologians in their
oarse way call it Hell, though that is a
v^ord which is forbidden here; it is indeed
L sort of treason to use the word, because
if its unfortunate association — and you
lan see with your own eyes that I have
lone wrong even to speak of it."

I looked round, and saw indeed that a
'^isible tremor had fallen on the groups
ibout us; it was as though a cold cloud,
ull of hail and darkness, had floated over
I sunny sky. People were hurrying out
)f the garden, and some were regarding
IS askance and with frowns of disap-
proval. In a moment or two we were left
ilone.

" I have been indiscreet," said Charmides,
^ but I feel somehow in a rebellious mood ;
md indeed it has long seemed absurd to me
:hat you should be unaware of the fact, and
;o obviously guileless ! But I will speak no
nore of this to-day. People come and go

90 The Child of the Dawn

here very strangely, and I have sometimes
wondered if it would not soon be time for
me to go; but it would be idle to pretoid
that I have not been happy here.^'

XI

What Charmides had told me filled me with

great astonishment ; it seemed to me strange

that I had not perceived the truth before.

It made me feel that I had somehow been

wasting time. I was tempted to call Amroth

to my side, but I remembered what he had

said, and I determined to resist the impulse.

I half expected to find that our strange

talk, and the very obvious disapproval of

our words, had made some difference to me.

But it was not the case. I found myself

treated with the same smiling welcome as

before, and indeed with an added kind of

gentleness, such as older people give to a

child who has been confronted with some

hard fact of life, such as a sorrow or an

illness. This in a way disconcerted me; for

in the moment when I had perceived the

truth, there had come over me the feeling

91

92 The Child of the Dawn

that I ought in some way to bestir myself
to preach, to warn, to advise. Bnt the idea
of finding any sort of fault with these con-
tented, leisurely, interested people, seemed
to me absurd, and so I continued bb before,
half enjoying the life about me, and half
bored by it. It seemed so ludicrous in any
way to pity the inhabitants of the place, and
yet I dimly saw that none of them could
possibly continue there. But I soon saw
that there was no question of advice, be-
cause I had nothing to advise. To ask them
to be discontented, to suffer, to inquire,
seemed as absurd as to ask a man riding
comfortably in a carriage to get out and
walk; and yet I felt that it was just that
which they needed. But one effect the in-
cident had ; it somehow seemed to draw me
more to Cynthia. There followed a time
of very close companionship with her. She
sought me out, she began to confide in me,
chattering about her happiness and her de-
light in her surroundings, as a child might
chatter, anr> half ^hiding me, in a tender and

The Child of the Dawn 93

pretty way, for not being more at ease in
the place. " You always seem to me," she
said, "as if you were only staying here,
while I feel as if I could live here for ever.
Of course you are very kind and patient
about it all, but you are not at home — and
I don^t care a bit about your disapproval
now." She talked to me much about Lucius,
who seemed to have a great attraction for
her. " He is all right," she said. " There
is no nonsense about him, — we understand
each other; I don't get tired of him, and
we like the same things. I seem to know
exactly what he feels about everything ; and
that is one of the comforts of this place,
that no one asks questions or makes mis-
chief; one can do just as one likes all the
time. I did not think, when I was alive,
that there could be anything so delightful
as all this ahead of me."

"Do you never think — ?" I began, but
she put her hand to my lips, like a child,
to stop me, and said, " No, I never think,
and I never mean to think, of all the old

94 The Child of the Dawn

hateful things. I never wilfully did any
harm; I only liked the people who liked
me, and gave them all they asked — ^and now
I know that I did right, though in old days
serious people used to try to frighten me.
God is very good to me/^ she went on, smil-
ing, " to allow me to be happy in my own
way."

While we talked thus, sitting on a seat
that overlooked the great city — I had never
seen it look so stately and beautiful, so full
of all that the heart could desire — ^Lucius
himself drew near to us, smiling, and seated
himself the other side of Cynthia. " Now
is not this heavenly? " she said ; " to be with
the two people I like best — for you are a
faithful old thing, you know — ^and not to
be afraid of anything disagreeable op tire-
some happening — not to have to explain or
make excuses, what could be better? "

" Yes,'' said Lucius, " it is happy enough,"
and he smiled at me in a friendly way.
*' The pleasantest point is that one can wait
in this charming place. In the old days.

The Child of the Dawn 95

one was afraid of a hundred things — money,
weather, illness, criticism. One had to
make love in a hurry, because one missed
the beautiful hour ; and then there was the
horror of growing old. But now if Cyn-
thia chooses to amuse herself with other
people, what do I care? She comes back
as delightful as ever, and it is only so much
more to be amused about. One is not even
afraid of being lazy, and as for those ugly
twinges of what one called conscience —
which were only a sort of rheumatism after
all — that is all gone too; and the delight
of finding that one was right after all, and
that there were really no such things as
consequences ! '^

I became aware, as Lucius spoke thus, in
all his careless beauty, of a vague trouble
of soul. I seemed to foresee a kind of con-
flict between myself and him. He felt it
too, I was aware; for he drew Cynthia to
him, and said something to her; and pre-
sently they went off laughing, like a pair
of children, waving a farewell to me. I

96 The Child of the Dawn

experienced a sense of desolation, knowing
in my mind that all was not well, and yet
feeling so powerless to contend with happi-
ness so strong and wide.

XII

Peesently I wandered oflE alone, and went
out of the city with a sudden impulse. I
thought I would go in the opposite direction
to that by which I had entered it. I could
see the great hills down which Cynthia and
I had made our way in the dawn; but I
had never gone in the further direction,
where there stretched what seemed to be
a great forest. The whole place lay bathed
in a calm light, all unutterably beautiful.
I wandered long by streams and wood-ends,
every corner that I turned revealing new
prospects of delight. I came at last to the
edge of the forest, the mouths of little open
glades running up into it, with fern and
thorn-thickets. There were deer here brows-
ing about the dingles, which let me come
close to them and touch them, raising their

heads from the grass, and regarding me with
7 97

98 The Child of the Dawn

gentle and fearless eyes. Birds sang softly
among the boughs, and even fluttered to my
shoulder, as if pleased to be noticed.
this was what was called on earth the place
of torment, a place into which it seemed as
if nothing of sorrow or pain could ever
intrude!

Just on the edge of the wood stood a
little cottage, surrounded by a quiet garden,
bees humming about the flowers, the scents
of which came with a homely sweetness on
the air. But here I saw something which
1 did not at first understand. This was a
group of three people, a man and a woman
and a boy of about seventeen, beside the
cottage porch. They had a rustic air about
them, and the same sort of leisurely look
that all the people of the land wore. They
were all three beautiful, with a simple and
appropriate kind of beauty, such as comes
of a contented sojourn in the open air. But
I became in a moment aware that there
was a disturbing element among them. The
two elders seemed to be trying to persuade

I

The Child of the Dawn 99

the boy, who listened smilingly enough, but
half turned away from them, as though he
were going away on some errand of which
they did not approve. They greeted me, as
I drew near, with the same cordiality as
one received everywhere, and the man said,
" Perhaps you can help us, sir, for we are
in a trouble? " The woman joined with a
murmur in the request, and I said I would
gladly do what I could; while I spoke, the
boy watched me earnestly, and something
drew me to him, because I saw a look that
seemed to tell me that he was, like myself,
a stranger in the place. Then the man
said, "We have lived here together very
happily a long time, we three — I do not
know how we came together, but so it was ;
and we have been more at ease than words
can tell, after hard lives in the other world ;
and now this lad here, who has been our
delight, says that he must go elsewhere and
cannot stay with us; and we would per-
suade him if we could; and perhaps you,
sir, who no doubt know what lies beyond

100 The Child of the Dawn

the fields aod woods that we see, can satisfy
him that it is better to remain."

While he spoke, the other two had drawn
near to me, and the eyes of the woman
dwelt upon the boy with a look of intent
love, while the boy looked in my face anx-
iously and inquiringly. I could see, I
found, very deep into his heart, and I saw
in him a need for further experience, and
a desire to go further on; and I knew at
once that this could only be satisfied in one
way, and that something would grow out
of it both for himself and for his compan-
ions. So I said, as smilingly as I could,
" I do not indeed know much of the ways
of this place, but this I know, that we must
go where we are sent, that no harm can
befall us, and that we are never far away
from those whom we love. I myself have
lately been sent to visit this strange land;
it seems only yesterday since I left the
mountains yonder, and yet I have seen an
abundance of strange and beautiful things;
vro Tnnsf fem^'^bPT- ^hnt hPT«e there is no

The Child of the Dawn loi

sickness or misfortune or growing old; and
there is no reason, as there often seemed to
be on earth, why we should fight against
separation and departure. No one can, I
think, be hindered here from going where
he is bound. So I believe that you will
let the boy go joyfully and willingly, for I
am sure of this, that his journey holds not
only great things for himself, but even
greater things for both of you in the future.
So be content and let him depart."

At this the woman said, "Yes, that is
right, the stranger is right, and we must
hinder the child no longer. No harm can
come of it, but only good; perhaps he will
return, or we may follow him, when the
day comes for that.''

I saw that the old man was not wholly
satisfied with this. He shook his head and
looked sadly on the boy; and then for a
time we sat and talked of many things.
One thing that the old man said surprised
me very greatly. He seemed to have lived
many lives, and always lives of labour; he

I02 The Child of the Dawn

had grown, I gathered from his simple talk,
to have a great love of the earth, the lives
of flocks and herds, and of all the plants
that grew ont of the earth or flourished in
it. I had thought before, in a foolish way,
that all this might be put away from the
spirit, in the land where there was no need
of such things; but I saw now that there
was a claim for labour, and a love of com-
mon things, which did not belong only to
the body, but was a real desire of the spirit.
He spoke of the pleasures of tending cattle,
of cutting fagots in the forest woodland
among the copses, of ploughing and sowing,
with the breath of the earth about one;
till I saw that the toil of the world, which
I had dimly thought of as a thing which
no one would do if they were not obliged,
was a real instinct of the spirit, and had
its counterpart beyond the body. I had
supposed indeed that in a region where all
troublous accidents of matter were over and
done with, and where there was no need
of bodily sustenance, there could be nothing

The Child of the Dawn 103

which resembled the old weary toil of the
body; but now I saw gladly that this was
not so, and that the primal needs of the
spirit outlast the visible world. Though
my own life had been spent mostly among
books and things of the mind, I knew well
the joys of the country-side, the blossoming of
the orchard-close, the high-piled granary, the
brightly-painted waggon loaded with hay,
the creaking of the cider-press, the lowing
of cattle in the stall, the stamping of horses
in the stable, the mud-stained implements
hanging in the high-roofed, cobwebbed barn.
I had never known why I loved these things
so well, and had invented many fancies to
explain it; but now I saw that it was the
natural delight in work and increase; and
that the love which surrounded all these
things was the sign that they were real
indeed, and that in no part of life could
they be put away. And then there came
on me a sort of gentle laughter at the
thought of how much of the religion of the
world spent itself on bidding the heart turn

104 The Child of the Dawn

away from vanities^ and lose itself in dreams
of wonders and doctrines, and what were
called higher and holier things than bams
and byres and sheep-pens. Yet the truth
had been staring me in the face all the time,
if only I could have seen it ; that the sense
of constraint and unreality that fell upon
one in religious matters, when some curious
and intricate matter was confusedly ex-
pounded, was perfectly natural and whole-
some; and that the real life of man lay in
the things to which one returned, on work-
a-day mornings, with such relief — the acts
of life, the work of homestead, library, bar-
rack, office, and clas»-room, the sight and
sound of humanity, the smiles and glances
and unconsidered words.

When we had sat together for a time, the
boy made haste to depart. We three went
with him to the edge of the wood, where a
road passed up among the oaks. The three
embraced and kissed and said many loving
words; and then to ease the anxieties of
the two, I said that I would myself set

I

The Child of the Dawn 105

the boy forward on his way, and see him
well bestowed. They thanked me, and we
went together into the wood, the two lov-
ingly waving and beckoning, and the boy
stepping blithely by my side.

I asked him whether he was not sorry to
go and leave the quiet place and the pair
that loved him. He smiled and said that
he knew he was not leaving them at all,
and that he was sure that they would soon
follow; and that for himself the time had
come to know more of the place. I learned
from him that his last life had been an
unhappy one, in a crowded street and a
slovenly home, with much evil of talk and
act about him ; he had hated it all, he said,
but for a little sister that he had loved, who
had kissed and clasped him, weeping, when
he lay dying of a miserable disease. He
said that he thought he should find her,
which made part of his joy of going; that
for a long while there had come to him a
sense of her remembrance and love; and
that he had once sent his thought back to

io6 The Child of the Dawn

earth to find her, and she was in much
grief and care ; and that then all these mes-
sages had at once ceased, and he knew that
she had left the body. He was a merry
boy, full of delight and laughter, and we
went very cheerfully together through the
sunlit wood, with its green glades and op^
spaces, which seemed all full of life and
happiness, creatures living together in good-
will and comfort. I saw in this journey
that all things that ever lived a conscious
life in one of the innumerable worlds had
a place and life of their own, and a time
of refreshment like myself. What I could
not discern was whether there was any in-
terchange of lives, whether the soul of the
tree could become an animal, or the animal
progress to be a man. It seemed to me
that it was not so, but that each had a
separate life of its own. But I saw how
foolish was the fancy that I had pursued
in old days, that there was a central reser-
voir of life, into which at death all little
lives were merged ; I was yet to learn how

The Child of the Dawn 107

strangely all life was knit together, but
now I saw that individuality was a real
and separate thing, which could not be
broken or lost, and that all things that had
ever enjoyed a consciousness of the privilege
of separate life had a true dignity and worth
of existence; and that it was only the body
that had made hostility necessary; that
though the body could prey upon the bodies
of animal and plant, yet that no soul could
devour or incorporate any other soul. But
as yet the merging of soul in soul through
love was unseen and indeed unsuspected
by me.

Now as we went in the wood, the boy
and I, it came into my mind in a flash that
I had seen a great secret. I had seen, I
knew, very little of the great land yet —
and indeed I had been but in the lowest
place of all: and I thought how base and
dull our ideas had been upon earth of God
and His care of men. We had thought of
Him dimly as sweeping into His place of
torment and despair all poisoned and dig-

io8 The Child of the Dawn

eased lives, all lives that had clnng to
body and to the pleasures of the body, aU
who had sinned idly, or wilfully, or
proudly ; and I saw now that He used men
far more wisely and lovingly than thus.
Into this lowest place indeed passed all
sad, and diseased, and unhappy spirits:
and instead of being tormented or accursed,
all was made delightful and beautiful for
them there, because they needed not harsh
and rough handling, but care and soft tend-
ance. They were not to be frightened
hence, or to live in fear and anguish, but
to live deliciously according to their wish,
and to be drawn to perceive in some quiet
manner that all was not well with them;
they were to have their heart's desire, and
learn that it could not satisfy them; but
the only thing that could draw them thence
was the love of some other soul whom they
must pursue and find, if they could. It was
all so high and reasonable and just that I
could not admire it enough. I saw that the
boy w^s drawn t^enc^ b^ the love of his

The Child of the Dawn 109

little sister, who was elsewhere; and that
the love and loss of the boy would presently
draw the older pair to follow him and to
leave the place of heart's delight. And then
I began to see that Cynthia and Charmides
and Lucius were being made ready, each
at his own time, to leave their little plea-
sures and ordered lives of happiness, and to
follow heavenwards in due course. Be-
cause it was made plain to me that it was
the love and w^orship of some other soul
that was the constraining force; but what
the end would be I could not discern.

And now as we went through the wood,
I began to feel a strange elation and joy
of spirit, severe and bracing, very dif-
ferent from my languid and half-contented
acquiescence in the place of beauty; and
now the woods began to change their kind ;
there were fewer forest trees now, but bare
heaths with patches of grey sand and scat-
tered pines ; and there began to drift across
the light a grey vapour which hid the deli-
cate hues and colours of the sunlight, and

no The Child of the Dawn

made everything appear pale and spare.
Very soon we caxne out on the brow of a
low hill, and saw, all spread out before us,
a place which, for all its dulness and dark-
ness, had a solemn beauty of its own.
There were great stone buildings very
solidly made, with high chimneys which
seemed to stream with smoke ; we could see
men, as small as ants, moving in and out
of the buildings; it seemed like a place of
manufacture, with a busy life of its own.
But here I suddenly felt that I could go
no further, but must return. I hoped that
I should see the grim place again, and I
desired with all my soul to go down into
it, and see what eager life it was that was
being lived there. And the boy, I saw, felt
this too, and was impatient to proceed. So
we said farewell with much tenderness, and
the boy went down swiftly across the moor-
land, till he met some one who was coming
out of the city, and conferred a little with
him; and then he turned and waved his
hand to me, and I waved my hand from

The Child of the Dawn 1 1 1

the brow of the hill, envying him in my
hearty and went back in sorrow into the
sunshine of the wood.

And as I did so I had a great joy, be-
cause I saw Amroth come suddenly run-
ning to me out of the wood, who put his
arm through mine, and walked with me.
Then I told him of all I had seen and
thought, while he smiled and nodded and
told me it was much as I imagined. " Yes,''
he said, " it is even so. The souls you have
seen in this fine country here are just as
children who are given their fill of pleasant
things. Many of them have come into the
state in which you see them from no fault
of their own, because their souls are young
and ignorant. They have shrunk from all
pain and effort and tedium, like a child that
does not like his lessons. There is no
thought of punishment, of course. No one
leams anything of punishment except a
cowardly fear. We never advance until
we have the will to advance, and there is
nothing in mere suffering, unless we learn

112 The Child of the Dawn

to bear it gently for the sake of love. On
earth it is not God bnt man who is cm
I There is indeed a place of sorrow, which
yon will see when yon can bear the fflght,
where the self-righteons and the harsh go i
for a time, and all those who have ma
others snfifer because they believed in their
own justice and insight! You will find
there all tyrants and conquerors, and many
rich men, who used their wealth heedlessly;
and even so you will be surprised when yon
see it. But those spirits are the hardest of
all to help, because they have loved nothing
but their own virtue or their own ambition ;
yet you will see how they too are drawn
thence; and now that you have had a sight
of the better country, tell me how yon liked
it."

" Why," I said, " it is plain and austere
enough; but I felt a great quickening of
spirit, and a desire to join in the labours
of the place."

Amroth smiled, and said, " Yon will have
little share in that You will find your

The Child of the Dawn 113

task, no doubt, when you are strong enough ;
and now you must go back and make un-
willing holiday with your pleasant friends.
Tou have not much longer to stay there;
and surely" — he laughed as he spoke —
*^you can endure a little more of those pretty
concerts and charming talk of art and its
values and pulsations ! "

" I can endure it," I said, laughing, " for
it does me good to see you and to hear you ;
but tell me, Amroth, what have you been
about all this time? Have you had a
thought of me? "

"Yes, indeed," said Amroth, laughing.
" I don't forget you, and I love your com-
pany; but I am a busy man myself, and
have something pleasanter to do than to
attend these elegant receptions of yours —
at which, indeed, I have sometimes thought
you out of place."

As we thus talked we came to the forest
lodge. The old pair came running out to
greet me, and I told them that the boy was
well bestowed. I could see in the woman's

8

114 The Child of the Dawn

face that she would soon follow him, and
even the old man had a look that I had
not seen in him before; and here Amroth
left me, and I returned to the city, where
all was as peaceable as before.

XIII

But when I saw Cynthia, as I presently
did, she too was in a different mood. She
had positively missed me, and told me so
with many endearments. I was not to re-
main away so long. I was useful to her.
Charmides had become tiresome and lost
in thought, but Lucius was as sweet as ever.
Some new-comers had arrived, all pleasant
enough. She asked me where I had been,
and I told her all the story. "Yes, that
is beautiful enough," she said, " but I hate
all this breaking up and going on. I am
sure I do not wish for any change." She
made a grimace of disgust at the idea of
the ugly town I had seen, and then she
said that she would go with me some time
to look at it, because it would make her
happier to return to her peace; and then

she went off to tell Lucius.

"5

ii6 The Child of the Dawn

I soon fonnd Cbarmides, and I told him
my adventures. " That is a curious story/'
he said. " I like to think of people caring
for each other so; that is pictur^que!
These simple emotions are interesting. And
one likes to think that people who have
none of the finer tastes should have some-
thing to fall back upon — something hot and
strong, as we used to say."

" But," I said, " tell me this, Charmides,
was there never any one in the old days
whom you cared for like that? "

" I thought so often enough," said h^ a
little peevishly, " but you do not know how
much a man like myself is at the mercy of
little things! An ugly hand, a brok^
tooth, a fallen cheek ... it seems little
enough, but one has a sort of standard. I
had a microscopic eye, you know, and a
little blemish was a serious thing to me.
I was always in search of something that
I could not find ; then there were awkward
strains ^ti fhe characters of people — ^they
ver*^ Fi'-aL "T* s;r^.9.f^j nr selfish, and all my

The Child of the Dawn 117

pleasure was suddenly dashed. I am speak-
ing," he went on, " with a strange candour !
I don't defend it or excuse it, but there it
was. I did once, as a child, I believe, care
for one person — an old nurse of mine — in
the right way. Dear, how good she was
to me ! I remember once how she came all
the way, after she had left us, to see me
on my way through town. She just met
me at a railway station, and she had bought
a little book which she thought might amuse
me, and a bag of oranges — she remembered
that I used to like oranges. I recollect at
the time thinking it was all very touching
and devoted; but I was with a friend of
mine, and had not time to say much. I
can see her old face, smiling, with tears in
her eyes, as we went off. I gave the book
and the oranges away, I remember, to a
child at the next station. It is curious how
it all comes back to me now; I never saw
her again, and I wish I had behaved better.
I should like to see her again, and to tell
her that I really cared! I wonder if that

ii8 The Child of the Dawn

is possible? But there is really so much
to do here and to enjoy; and there is no
one to tell me where to go, so that I \
puzzled. What is one to do? ''

^^ I think that if one desires a thing
enough here, Charmides,'' I said, ** one is in
a fair way to obtain it. Never mind! a
door will be opened. But one has got to
care, I suppose; it is not enough to look
upon it as a pretty effect, which one would
just like to put in its place with other
effects — ^Open, sesame' — do you remember?
There is a charm at which all doors fly
open, even here!"

" I will talk to you more about this," said
Charmides, "when I have had time to ar-
range my thoughts a little. " Who would
have supposed that an old recollection like
that would have disturbed me so much? It
would make a good subject for a picture or
a song.''

XIV

It was on one of these days that Amroth
came suddenly upon me, with a very mirth-
ful look on his face, his eyes sparkling like
a man struggling with hidden laughter.
" Come with me," he said ; " you have been
so dutiful lately that I am alarmed for
your health." Then we went out of the
garden where I was sitting, and we were
suddenly in a street. I saw in a moment
that it was a real street, in the suburb of
an English town ; there were electric trams
running, and rows of small trees, and an
open space planted with shrubs, with
asphalt paths and ugly seats. On the other
side of the road was a row of big villas,
tasteless, dreary, comfortable houses, with
meaningless turrets and balconies. I could
not help feeling that it was very dismal

that men and women should live in such

119

\

1 20 The Child of the Dawn

places, think them neat and well-appointed,
and even grow to love them. We went into
one of these houses; it was early in the
morning, and a little drizzle was falling,
which made the whole place fieem very
cheerless. In a room with a bow-window
looking on the road there were three per-
sons. An old man was reading a paper in
an arm-chair by the lire, with his back to
the light. He looked a nice old man, with
his clear skin and white hair; opposite him
was an old lady in another chair, reading
a letter. With his back to the fire stood
a man of about thirty-five, sturdy-looking,
but pale, and with an appearance of being
somewhat overworked. He had a good face,
but seemed a little uninteresting, as if he
did not feed his mind. The table had been
spread for breakfast, and the meal was fin-
ished and partly cleared away. The room
was ugly and the furniture was a little
shabby; there was a glazed bookcase, full
of dull-looking books, a sideboard, a table
with writing materials in the window, and

The Child of the Dawn 121

some engravings of royal groups and cele-
brated men.

The younger man, after a moment, said,
'' Well, I must be oft:' He nodded to his
father, and bent down to kiss his mother,
saying, ^* Take care of yourself — I shall be
back in good time for tea/' I had a sense
that he was using these phrases in a me-
chanical way, and that they were custom-
ary with him. Then he went out, planting
his feet solidly on the carpet, and presently
the front door shut. I could not under-
stand why we had come to this very un-
emphatic party, and examined the whole
room carefully to see what was the object
of our visit. A maid came in and removed
the rest of the breakfast things, leaving the
cloth still on the table, and some of the
spoons and knives, with the salt-cellars, in
their places. When -she had finished and
gone out, there was a silence, only broken
by the crackling of the paper as the old
man folded it. Presently the old lady said :
** I wish Charles could get his holiday a

122 The Child of the Dawn

little sooner ; he looks so tired, and he does
Bot eat well. He does stick so hard to his
business."

" Yes, dear, he does," said the old man,
" but it is just the busiest time, and he tells
me that they have had some large orders
lately. They are doing very well, I un-
derstand."

There was another silence, and then the
old lady put down her letter, and looked for
a moment at a picture, representing a boy,
a large photograph a good deal faded, which
hung close to her — underneath it was a
small vase of flowers on a bracket. She
gave a little sigh as she did this, and the
old man looked at her over the top of his
paper. "Just think, father," she said,
" that Harry would have been thirty-eight
this very week ! "

The old man made a comforting sort of
little noise, half sympathetic and half de-
precatory. " Yes, I know," said the old
lady, " but I can't help thinking about him
a great deal at this time of the year. I

The Child of the Dawn 123

don't understand why he was taken away
from us. He was always such a good boy
— he would have been just like Charles, only
handsomer — he was always handsomer and
brighter; he had so much of your spirit!
Not but what Charles has been the best of
sons to us — I don't mean that — ^no one
could be better or more easy to please! But
Harry had a different way with him." Her
eyes filled with tears, which she brushed
away. " No," she added, " I won't fret
about him. I daresay he is happier where
he is — I am sure he is — and thinking of his
mother too, my bonny boy, perhaps."

The old man got up, put his paper down,
went across to the old lady, and gave her
a kiss on the brow. " There, there," he said
soothingly, " we may be sure it 's all for the
best ; " and he stood looking down fondly
at her. Amroth crossed the room and stood
beside the pair, with a hand on the shoulder
of each. I saw in an instant that there
was an unmistakable likeness between the
three; but the contrast of the marvellous

124 The Child of the Dawn

brilliance and beauty of Amroth with the
old, world-wearied, simple-minded couple
was the most extraordinary thing to behold.
" Yes, I feel better already," said the old
lady, smiling; "it always does me good to
say out what I am feeling, father; and then
you are sure to understand."

The mist closed suddenly in ui>on the
scene, and we were back in a moment in
the garden with its porticoes, in the radiant,
untroubled air. Amroth looked at me with
a smile that was full, half of gaiety and
half of tenderness. "There," he said,
"what do you think of that? If all had
gone well with me, as they say on earth,
that is wliere I should be now, going down
to the city with Charles. That is the pro-
spect which to the dear old people seems so
satisfactory compared with this! In that
house I lay ill for some weeks, and from
there my body was carried out And they
would have kept me there if they could —
and I myself did not want to go. I was
afraid. Oh, how T pnvipd Charles going

The Child of the Dawn 125

down to the city and coming back for tea,
to read the magazines aloud or play back-
gammon. I am afraid I was not as nice as
I should have been about all that — the even-
ings were certainly dull ! "

" But what do you feel about it now? "
I said. "Don't you feel sorry for the
muddle and ignorance and pathos of it all?
Can't something be done to show everybody
what a ghastly mistake it is, to get so tied
down to the earth and the things of earth? "

" A mistake? " said Amroth. " There is
no such thing as a mistake. One cannot
sorrow for their grief, any more than one
can sorrow for the child who cries out in
the tunnel and clasps his mother's hand.
Don't you see that their grief and loss is
the one beautiful thing in those lives, and
all that it is doing for them, drawing them
hither? Why, that is where we grow and
become strong, in the hopeless suffering of
love. I am glad and content that my own
stay was made so brief. I wish it could be
shortened for the three — and yet I do not,

126 The Child of the Dawn

because they will gain so wonderfully by
it. They are mounting fast; it is their very
ignorance that teaches them. Not to know,
not to perceive, but to be forced to believe
in love, that is the point"

"Yes," I said, "I see that; but what
about the lives that are broken and poi-
soned by grief, in a stupor of pain — or the
souls that do not feel it at all, except as
a passing shadow — what about them?"

" Oh," said Amroth lightly, " the sadder
tlie dream the more blessed the awaken-
ing; and as for those who cannot feel —
well, it will all come to them, as they grow
older."

" Yes," I said, " it has done me good to
see all this — it makes many things plain;
but can you bear to leave them thus? "

"Leave them!" said Amroth. "Who
knows but that I shall be sent to help them
away, and carry them, as I carried you, to
^he crystal sea of peace? The darling
mother, I shall be there at her awakening.
They are old spJT'i^s, tiiosp two, old and

The Child of the Dawn 127

wise; and there is a high place prepared
for them.-'

** But what about Charles? " I said.

Amroth smiled. "Old Charles?" he
said. *^ I must admit that he is not a very
stirring figure at present. He is much im-
mersed in his game of finance, and talkie a
great deal in his lighter moments about the
commercial prospects of the Empire and the
need of retaliatory tariffs. But he will out-
grow all that ! He is a very loyal soul, but
not very adventurous just now. He would
be sadly discomposed by an affection which
came in between him and his figures. He
would think he wanted a change — and he
will have a thorough one, the good old fel-
low, one of these days. But he has a long
journey before him."

" Well," I said, " there are some surprises
here! I am afraid I am very youthful yet."

"Yes, dear child, you are very ingenu-
ous," said Amroth, " and that is a great
part of your charm. But we will find some-
thing for you to do before long! But here

128 The Child of the Dawn

comes Charmides, to talk about the need
of exquisite pulsations, and their siymbol-
ism — though I see a change in him too.
And now I must go back to business. Take
care of yourself, and I will be back to tea."
And Amroth flashed away in a very cheerful
mood.

XV

There were many things at that time that
were full of mystery, things which I never
came to understand. There was in particu-
lar a certain sort of people, whom one
met occasionally, for whom I could never
wholly account. They were unlike others
in this fact, that they never appeared to
belong to any particular place or com-
munity. They were both men and women,
who seemed — I can express it in no other
way — to be in the possession of a secret so
great that it made everything else trivial
and indifferent to them. Not that they were
impatient or contemptuous — it was quite the
other way; but to use a similitude, they
were like good-natured, active, kindly elders
at a children's party. They did not shun
conversation, but if one talked with them,

they used a kind of tender and gentle irony,
6 129

130 The Child of the Dawn

which had something admiring and c<
plimentary about it, which took away any
sense of vexation or of baffled curiosity. It
was simply as though their concern lay eke- I
where; they joined in anything with a frank
delight, not with any touch of condescen-
sion. They were even more kindly and
affectionate than others, because they did
not seem to have any small problems of
their own, and could give their whole at-
tention and thought to the person they were
with. These inscrutable people puzzled me
very much. I asked Amroth about them
once.

" Who are these people,'^ I said, ^^ whom
one sometimes meets, who are so far re-
moved from all of us? What are they
doing here? "

Amroth smiled. " So you have detected
them ! " he said. " You are quite right, and
it does your observation credit. But you
must find it out for yourself. I cannot
axplain, and if I could, vou would not un-
r'erstand me yet."

The Child of the Dawn 131

" Then I am not mistaken," I said, " but
I wish you would give me a hint — they seem
to know something more worth knowing
than all beside."

" Exactly," said Amroth. " You are very
near the truth ; it is staring you in the face ;
but it would spoil all if I told you. There
is plenty about them in the old books you
used to read — they have the secret of joy."
And that is all that he would say.

It was on a solitary ramble one day, out-
side of the place of delight, that I came
nearer to one of these people than I ever
did at any other time. I had wandered off
into a pleasant place of grassy glades with
little thorn-thickets everywhere. I went up
a small eminence, which commanded a view
of the beautiful plain with its blue distance
and the enamelled green foreground of
close-grown coverts. There I sat for a long
time lost in pleasant thought and wonder,
when I saw a man drawing near, walking
slowly and looking about him with a serene
and delighted air. He passed not far from

132 The Child of the Dawn

me, and observing me, waved a hand of
welcome, came up the slope, and greeting
me in a friendly and open manner, asked
if he might sit with me for a little^

" This is a pleasant place," he said, " and
you seem very agreeably occupied.''

" Yes,'' I said, looking into his smiling
face, " one has no engagements h^e, and no
need of business to fill the time — ^but indeed
I am not sure that I am busy enough."
As I spoke I was regarding him with some
curiosity. He was a man of mature age,
with a strong, firm-featured face, healthy
and sunburnt of aspect, and he was dressed,
not as I was for ease and repose, but with the
garments of a traveller. His hat, which
was large and of some soft grey cloth, was
pushed to his back, and hung there by a
cord round his neck. His hair was a little
grizzled, and lay close-curled to his head;
in his strong and muscular hand he carried
a stick. He smiled again at my words^
and said:

" Oh, one need not trouble about, being

The Child of the Dawn 133

busy until the time comes ; that is a feeling
one inherits from the life of earth, and I
am sure you have not left it long. You
have a very fresh air about you, as if you
had rested, and rested well."

" Yes, I have rested," I said ; " but though
I am content enough, there is something
unquiet in me, I am afraid ! "

" Ah ! " he said, " there is that in all of
us, and it would not be well with us if
there were not. Will you tell me a little
about yourself? That is one of the plea-
sures of this life here, that we have no need
to be cautious, or to fear that we shall
give ourselves away."

I told him my adventures, and he listened
with serious attention.

" Ah, that is all very good," he said at
last, " but you must not be in any hurry ;
it is a great thing that ideas should dawn
upon us gradually — one gets the full truth
of them so. It was the hurry of life which
was so bewildering — the shocks, the sur-
prises, the ugly reflections of one's conduct

134 The Child of the Dawn

that one saw in other lives — the comers one
had to turn. Things, indeed, come suddenly
even here, but one is led up to them gently
enough; allowed to enter the sea for one-
self, not soused and ducked in it. You will
need all the strength you can store up for
what is before you, and I can see in your
face that you are storing up strength — ^but
the weariness is not quite gone out of your
mind."

He was silent for a little, musing, till I
said, " Will you not tell me some of your
own adventures? I am sure from your look
that you have them ; and you are a pilgrim,
it seems. Where are you bound? "

" Oh," he said lightly, " I am not one of
the people who have adventures — ^just the
journey and the talk beside the way."

" But," I said, " I have seen some others
like you, and I am puzzled about it. You
seem, if I may say so — I do not mean any-
thing disrespectful or impertinent — to be
like the gipsies whom one meets in quiet
country places, with a secret knowledge of

The Child of the Dawn 135

their own, a pride too great to be worth
expressing, not anxious about life, not
weary or dissatisfied, caring not for local-
ities or possessions, but with a sort of eager
pleasure in freedom and movement."

He laughed. "Yes," he said, "you are
right ! I am no doubt a sort of nomad, as
you say, detached from life perhaps. I
don't know that it is desirable; there is a
great deal to be said for living in the same
place and loving the same things. Most
people are happier so, and learn what they
have to learn in that manner."

" Yes," I said, " that is true and beauti-
ful — the same old house, the same trees and
pastures, the stream and the water-plants
that hide it, the blue hills beyond the nearer
wood — the dear familiar things; but even
so the road which passes through the fields,
over the bridge, up the covert-side ... it
leads somewhere, and the heart on sunny
days leaps up to follow it! Talking with
you here, I feel a hunger for something
wider and more free; your voice has the

136 ' The Child of the Dawn

sound of the wind, with the secret know-
ledge of strange hill-tops and solitaiy seas!
Sometimes the heart settles down upon
what it knows and loves, but sometimes it
reaches out to all the love and beanfy hidden
in the world, and in the waters beyond the
world, and would embrace it all if it could.
The faces one sees as one passes through
unfamiliar cities or villages, how one longs
to talk, to question, to ask what gave them
the look they wear. . . . And you, if I
may say it, seem to have passed beyond the
need of wanting or desiring anything . . .
but I must not talk thus to a stranger;
you must forgive me."

" Forgive you? " said the stranger; " that
is only an earthly phrase — the old terror of
indiscretion and caution. What are we
here for but to get acquainted with one an-
other — to let our inmost thoughts talk to-
gether? In the world we are bounded by
time and space, and we have the terror of
each other's glances and exteriors to con-
tend with. We make friends on earth in

The Child of the Dawn 137

spite of our limitations; but in heaven we
get to know each other's hearts; and that
blessing goes back with us to the dim fields
and narrow houses of the earth. I see
plainly enough that you are not perfectly
happy; but one can only win content
through discontent. Where you are now,
you are not in accord with the souls about
you. Never mind that! There are beauti-
ful spirits within reach of your hand and
heart; a little clouded by mistaking the
quality of joy, no doubt, but great and ever-
lasting for all that. You must try to draw
near to them, and find spirits to love. Do
you not remember in the days of earth how
one felt sometimes in an unfamiliar place
— among a gathering of strangers — at
church perhaps, or at some school which
one visited, where one saw the young faces
which showed so clearly, before the world
had stamped itself in frowns and heaving ;
upon them, the quality of the soul with
Don't you remember the feeling at
times of how many there were in the

136 ' The Child of the Dawn

sound of the wind, with the secret know-
ledge of strange hill-tops and solitaiy seas!
Sometimes the heart settles down upon
what it knows and loves, but sometimes it
reaches out to all the love and beauty hidden
in the world, and in the waters beyond the
world, and would embrace it all if it could.
The faces one sees as one passes through
unfamiliar cities or villages, how one longs
to talk, to question, to ask what gave them
the look they wear. . . . And you, if I
may say it, seem to have passed beyond the
need of wanting or desiring anything . . .
but I must not talk thus to a stranger;
you must forgive me."

« Forgive you? " said the stranger; " that
is only an earthly phrase — the old terror of
indiscretion and caution. What are we
here for but to get acquainted with one an-
other — to let our inmost thoughts talk to-
gether? In the world we are bounded by
time and space, and we have the terror of
each other's glances and exteriors to con-
tend with. We make friends on earth in

The Child of the Dawn 137

spite of our limitations; but in heaven we
get to know each other's hearts; and that
blessing goes back with us to the dim fields
and narrow houses of the earth. I see
plainly enough that you are not perfectly
happy; but one can only win content
through discontent. Where you are now,
you are not in accord with the souls about
you. Never mind that! There are beauti-
ful spirits within reach of your hand and
heart; a little clouded by mistaking the
quality of joy, no doubt, but great and ever-
lasting for all that. You must try to draw
near to them, and find spirits to love. Do
you not remember in the days of earth how
one felt sometimes in an unfamiliar place
— among a gathering of strangers — at
church perhaps, or at some school which
one visited, where one saw the young faces,
which showed so clearly, before the world
had stamped itself in frowns and heaviness
upon them, the quality of the soul within?
Don't you remember the feeling at such
times of how many there were in the world

138 The Child of the Dawn

whom one might love, if one had leisure
and opportunity and energy? Well, tiiere
is no need to resist that, or to deplore it
here; one may go where one's will inclines
one, and speak as one's heart tells one to
speak. I think you are i)erhaps too con-
scious of waiting for something. Your task
lies ahead of you, but the work of love can
begin at once and anywhere."

" Yes," I said, " I feel that now and here.
Will you not tell me something of yourself
in return? I cannot read your mind clearly
— it is occupied with something I cannot
grasp — what is your work in heaven? "

"Oh," he said lightly, "that is easy
enough, and yet you would not understand
it. I have been led through the shadow
of fear, and I have passed out on the other
side. And my duty is to release others from
fear, as far as I can. \^ It is the darkest
shadow of all, because it dwells in the un-
known. Pain, without it, is no suffering
at all; indeed pain is almost a pleasure,
when one knows what it is doing for one.

The Child of the Dawn 139

But fear is the doubt whether pain or suf-
fering are really helping us; and just as
memory never has any touch of fear about
it, so hope may likewise have done with
fear.''

" But how did you learn this? " I said.

" Only by fearing to the uttermost," lie
replied. " The power — it is not courage,
because that only defies fear — cannot be
given one; it must be painfully won. You
remember the blessing of the pure in heart,
that they shall see God? There would be
little hope in that promise for the soul that
knew itself to be impure, if it were not for
the other side of it — that the vision of God,
which is the most terrible of all things, can
give purity to the most sin-stained soul.
In that vision, all desire and all fear have
an end, because there is nothing left either
to desire or to dread. That vision we may
delay or hasten. We may delay it, if we
allow our prudence, or our shame, or our
comfort, to get in the way : we may hasten
it, if we cast ourselves at every moment of

140 The Child of the Dawn

our pilgrimage upon the mercy and the love
of God. His one desire is that we should
be satisfied; and if He seems to put ob-
stacles in our way, to keep us waiting, to
permit us to be miserable, that is only that
we may learn to cast ourselves into love
and service — which is the one way to His
heart. But now I must be going, for I
have said all that you can bear. \^ Will yon
remember this — ^not to reserve yourself, not
to think others unworthy or hostile, but to
cast your love and trust freely and lavishly,
everywhere and anywhere?) We must gather
nothing, hold on to nothing, just give our-
selves away at every moment, flowing like
the stream into every channel that is open,
withholding nothing, retaining nothing^ I
see," he added, "very great and beautiful
things ahead of you, and very sad and
painful things as well. But you are close
to the light, and it is breaking all about
you with a splendour which you cannot
guess."
T(a, ro^A up. hp tnot rn^ hand in his own

The Child of the Dawn 141

and laid the other on my brow, and I felt
his heart go out to mine and gather me
to him, as a child is gathered to a father's
arms. And then he went silently and
lightly upon his way.

I

XVI

The time moved on quietly enough in the
land of delight. I made acquaintance with
quite a number of the soft-voiced contented
folk. Sometimes it interested me to see the
change coming upon one or another, a
wonder or a desire that made them sit with-
draw^n and abstracted, and breaking with
a sort of effort out of the dreamful mood.
Then they would leave us, sometimes quite
suddenly, sometimes with courteous adieus.
New-comers, too, kept arriving, to be made
pleasantly at home. I found myself see-
ing more of Cynthia. She was much with
Lucius, and they seemed as gay as ever,
but I saw that she was sometimes puzzled.
She said to me one day as we sat together,
" I wish you would tell me what this is
ill about? I do not want to change it, and
^m 'orr '^appy, b"^ 8 u't it all rather

The Child of the Dawn 143

pointless? I believe you have some secret
you are keeping from me." She was sitting
close beside me, like a child, resting her
head on my arm, and she took my hand
in both of hers.

"No," I said, "I am keeping nothing
from you, pretty child! I could not ex-
plain to you what is in my mind, and it
would spoil your pleasure if I could. It
is all right, and you will see in good time."

" I hate to be put off like that," she said.
" You are not really interested in me ; and
you do not trust me ; you do not care about
the things I care about, and if you are so
superior, you ought to explain to me why."

" Well," I said, " I will try to explain.
Do you ever remember having been very
happy in a place, and having been obliged
to leave it, always hoping to return; and
then when you did return, finding that,
though nothing was changed, you were your-
self changed, and could not, even if you
would, have taken up the old life again ? "

" Yes," said Cynthia, musing, " I remem-

144 The Child of the Dawn

ber that sort of thing happening once, about
a house where I stayed as a child. It
seemed so stupid and dull when I went
back that I wondered how I could ever have
really liked if

" Well," I said, " it is the same sort of
thing here. I am only here for a time, and
though I do not know where I am going
or when, I think I shall not be here much
longer."

At this Cynthia did what she had nev»
done before — she kissed me. Then she said,
"Don't speak of such disagreeable things.
I could not get on without you. You are
so convenient, like a comfortable eld arm-
chair."

"What a compliment!" I said* "But
you see that you don't like my explanation.
Why trouble about it? You have plenty
of time. Is Lucius like an arm-chair, too? "

" No," she said, " he is exciting, like a
new necklace — and Charmides, he is excit-
ing too, in a way, but rather too fine for
me. like a ball-dref^a ' "

The Child of the Dawn 145

" Yes," I said, " I noticed that your own
taste in dress is different of late. This is
a much simpler thing than what you came
in."

" Oh, yes/' she said, " it does n't seem
worth while to dress up now. I have made
my friends, and I suppose I am getting
lazy."

We said little more, but she did not seem
inclined to leave me, and was more with
me for a time. I actually heard her tell
Lucius once that she was tired, at which
he laughed, not very pleasantly, and went
away.

But my own summons came to me so un-
exi)ectedly that I had but little time to
make my farewell.

I was sitting once in a garden-close watch-
ing a curious act proceeding, which I did
not quite understand. It looked like a re-
ligious ceremony; a man in embroidered
robes was being conducted by some boys in
white dresses through the long cloister, car-
rying something carefully wrapped up in

10

146 The Child of the Dawn

his armSy and I heard what sounded like
an antique hymn of a fine stiff melodji
rapidly song.

There had been nothing quite like this
before, and I suddenly became aware that
Amroth was beside me, and that he had a
look of anger in his face. '' Yon had better
not look at this/' he said to me; ^^it might
not be very helpful, as they say,''

" Am I to come with yon? " I said.
" That is well — but I should like to say a
word to one or two of my friends here."

" No, not a word ! '' said Amroth quickly.
He looked at me with a curious look, in
which he seemed to be measuring my
strength and courage. "Yes, that will
do ! " he added. " Come at once— don't be
surprised — it will be different from what
you expect.''

He took me by the arm, and we hurried
from the place; one or two of the people
who stood by looked at us in lazy wonder.
We walked in silence down a long alley,
*:o f? ffvaaf QP^c iiQf T 'ip^ often passed in

The Child of the Dawn 147

my strolls. It was a barred iron gate, of
a very stately air, with high stone gate-
posts. I had never been able to find my
outward way to this, and there was a view
from it of enchanting beauty, blue distant
woods and rolling slopes. Amroth came
quickly to the gate, seemed to unlock it,
and held it open for me to pass. "One
word," he said with his most beautiful
smile, his eyes flashing and kindling with
some secret emotion, "whatever happens,
do not be afraid! There is nothing what-
ever to fear, only be prepared and wait."
He motioned me through, and I heard him
close the gate behind me.

XVII

I WAS alone in an instant^ and in terrible
pain — pain not in any part of me, but all
around and within me. A cold wind of a
piercing bitterness seemed to blow npon me;
but with it came a sense of immense energy
and strength^ so that the pain became sud-
denly delightful, like the stretching of a
stiffened limb. I cannot pnt the pain into
exact words. It was not attended by any
horror; it seemed a sense of infinite grief
and loss and loneliness, a deep yearning to
be delivered and made free, I felt suddenly
as though everything I loved had gone from
me, irretrievably gone and lost I looked
round me, and I could discern through a
mist the bases of some black and sinister
rocks, that towered up intolerably above
me; in between them w^ere channels full of
stones and ririftp^ snow. Anything more

The Child of the Dawn 149

stupendous than those black-ribbed crags^
those toppling precipices, I had never seen.
The wind howled among them, and some-
times there was a noise of rocks cast down.
I knew in some obscure way that my path
lay there, and my heart absolutely failed
me. Instead of going straight to the rocks,
I began to creep along the base to see
whether I could find some easier track.
Suddenly the voice of Amroth said, rather
sharply, in my ear, " Don't be silly ! "
This homely direction, . so peremptorily
made, had an instantaneous effect. If he
had said, " Be not faithless," or anything
in the copybook manner, I should have sat
down and resigned myself to solemn de-
spair. But now I felt a fool and a coward
as well.

So I addressed myself, like a dog who
hears the crack of a whip, to the rocks.

It would be tedious to relate how I
clambered and stumbled and agonised.
There did not seem to me the slightest use
in making the attempt, or the smallest

ISO The Child of the Dawn

hope of reaching the top, or the least ex-
pectation of finding anything worth find-
ing. I hated everything I had ever aeen
or known ; recollections of old lives and of
the quiet garden I had left came upon me
with a sort of mental nausea. This was
very different from the amiable and easy-
going treatment I had expected. Yet I did
struggle on, with a hideous faintness and
weariness — but would it never stop? It
seemed like years to me, my hands frozen
and wetted by snow and dripping water,
my feet bruised and wounded by sharp
stones, my garments strangely torn and
rent, with stains of blood showing through
in places. Still the hideous business
continued, but progress was never quite
impossible. At one place I found the
rocks wholly impassable, and choosing the
broader of two ledges which ran left and
right, I worked out along the cliff, only to
find that the ledge ran into the precipices,
and I had to retrace my steps, if the shuf-
fling niot'^ns T marie ^ould be so called.

The Child of the Dawn 151

Then I took the harder of the two, which
zigzagged backwards and forwards across
the rocks. At one place I saw a thing
which moved me very strangely. This was
a heap of bones, green, slimy, and ill-smell-
ing, with some tattered rags of cloth about
them, which lay in a heap beneath a preci-
pice. The thought that a man could fall
and be killed in such a place moved me
with a fresh misery. What that meant I
could not tell. Were we not away from
such things as mouldering flesh and broken
bones? It seemed not; and I climbed madly
away from them. Quite suddenly I came
to the top, a bleak platform of rock, where
I fell prostrate on my face and groaned.

"Yes, that was an ugly business," said
the voice of Amroth beside me, "but you
got through it fairly well. How do you
feel?"

" I call it a perfect outrage," I said.
"What is the meaning of this hateful
business?" :

"The meaning?" said Amroth; "never

152 The Child of the Dawn

mind about the meaning. The point is that
you are here ! ''

"Oh," I said, "I have had a horrible
time. All my sense of security is gone from
me. Is one indeed liable to this kind of
interruption, Amroth? "

" Of course," said Amroth, " there must
be some tests; but you will be better very
soon. It is all over for the present, I may
tell you, and you will soon be able to enjoy
it. There is no terror in past suffering-
it is the purest joy."

" Yes, I used to say so and think so," I
said, closing my eyes. " But this was dif-
ferent — it was horrible! And the time it
lasted, and the despair of it! It seems to
have soaked into my whole life and i)oisoned
it."

Amroth said nothing for a minute, but
watched me closely.

Presently I went on. " And tell me one
thing. There was a ghastly thing I saw,
:iome mouldering bones on a ledge. Can
people indeed ^«ill and ^^^'e there? "

The Child of the Dawn 153

" Perhaps it was only a phantom/' said
Amroth, "put there like the sights in the
Pilgrim's Progress^ the fire that was fed
secretly with oil, and the robin with his
mouth full of spiders, as an encouragement
for wayfarers ! '^

" But that," I said, " would be too horri-
ble for anything — to turn the terrors of
death into a sort of conjuring trick — a
dramatic entertainment, to make one's flesh
creep! Why, that was the misery of some
of the religion taught us in old days, that
it seemed often only dramatic — a scene
without cause or motive, just displayed to
show us the anger or the mercy of God, so
that one had the miserable sense that much
of it was a spectacular affair, that He Him-
self did not really suffer or feel indignation,
but thought it well to feign emotions, like
a schoolmaster to impress his pupils — and
that people too were not punished for their
owTi sakes, to help them, but just to startle
or convince others."

" Yes," said Amroth, " I was only jesting,

1 54 The Child of the Dawn

and I see that my jests were ont of place.
Of course what you saw was real — ^there
are no pretences here. Men and women do
indeed suffer a kind of death — the second
death — in these places, and have to b^n
again; but that is only for a certain sort
of self-confident and sin-soaked person,
whose will needs to be roughly broken.
There are certain perverse sins of the spirit
which need a spiritual death, as the sins of
the body need a bodily death. Only thus
can one be born again.^'

" Well," I said, " I am amazed — ^but now
what am I to do? I am fit for nothing, and
I shall be fit for nothing hereafter/'

" If you talk like this,'' said Amroth,
" you will only drive me away. There are
certain things that it is better not to con-
fess to one's dearest friend, not even to
God. One must just be silent about
them, try to forget them, hope they can
never happen again. I tell you, you will
soon be all right; and if you are not you
will have to see a physician. But you

The Child of the Dawn 155

had better not do that unless you are
obliged."

This made me feel ashamed of myself,
and the shame took oflf my thoughts from
what I had endured ; but I could do nothing
but lie aching and panting on the rocks for
a long time, while Amroth sat beside me
in silence.

"Are you vexed?" I said after a long
pause.

" No, no, not vexed," said Amroth, " but
I am not sure whether I have not made a
mistake. It was I who urged that you
might go forward, and I confess I am dis-
appointed at the result. You are softer
than I thought."

" Indeed I am not," I said. " I will go
down the rocks and come up again, if that
will satisfy you."

" Come, that is a little better," said Am-
roth, "and I will tell you now that you
did well — better indeed at the time than
I expected. You did the thing in very good
time, as we used to say."

156 The Child of the Dawn

By this time I felt very drowsy, and sud-
denly dropped off into a sleep— such a deep
and dreamless sleep, to descend into which
was like flinging oneself into a river-pool
by a bubbling weir on a hot and dusly day
of summer.

I awoke suddenly with a pressure on my
arm, and, waking up with a sense of re-
newed freshness, I saw Amroth looking at
me anxiously. " Do not say anything/' he
said. "Can you manage to hobble a few
steps? If you cannot, I will get some help,
and we shall be all right — ^but there may
be an unpleasant encounter, and it is best
avoided." I scrambled to my feet, and Am-
roth helped me a little higher up the rocks,
looking carefully into the mist as he did so.
Close behind us was a steep rock with
ledges. Amroth flung himself upon them,
with an agile scramble or two. Then he
held his hand down, lying on the top; I
took it, and, stiffened as I was, I con-
i:rived to get up beside him. "That is
iffht" ^^ '«H in a whimper. " Now lie

The Child of the Dawn 157

here quietly, don't speak a word, and just
watch.''

I lay, with a sense of something evil
about. Presently I heard the sound of
voices in the mist to the left of us; and in
an instant there loomed out of the mist the
form of a man, who was immediately fol-
lowed by three others. They were different
from all the other spirits I had yet seen —
tall, lean, dark men, very spare and strong.
They looked carefully about them, mostly
glancing down the cliff, and sometimes
conferred together. They were dressed in
close-fltting dark clothes, which seemed as
if made out of some kind of skin or un-
tanned leather, and their whole air was
sinister and terrifying. They passed quite
close beneath us, so that I saw the bald
head of one of them, who carried a sort of
hook in his hands.

When they got to the place where my
climb had ended, they stopped and exam-
ined the stones carefully: one of them
clambered a few feet down the cliff. Then

158 The Child of the Dawn

he came back and seemed to make a brief
report, after which they appeared undecided
what to do ; they even looked up at the rock
where we lay; but while they did this, an-
other man, very similar, came hurriedly out
of the mist, said something to the group,
and tliey all disapjieared very quickly into
tlie darkness the same way they had come.
Then tliere was a silence. I should have
spoken, but Amroth put a finger on his lips.
Presently there came a sound of falling
stones, and after that there broke out
among the rocks below a horrible crying,
as of a man in sore straits and instant fear.
Amroth jumped quickly to his feet. " This
will not do," he said. " Stay here for me.''
And then leaping down the rock, he disap-
peared, shouting words of help—" Hold on
— I am coming."

He came back some little time afterwards,
and I saw that he was not alone. He had
with him an old stumbling man, evidently
in the last extremity of terror and pain,
with beads of sweat on his brow and blood

The Child of the Dawn 159

running down from his hands. He seemed
dazed and bewildered. And Amroth too
looked ruffled and almost weary, as I had
never seen him look. I came down the rock
to meet them. But Amroth said, "Wait
here for me; it has been a troublesome busi-
ness, and I must go and bestow this poor
creature in a place of safety — I will re-
turn.'' He led the old man away among
the rocks, and I waited a long time, won-
dering very heavily what it was that I had
seen.

When Amroth came back to the rock he
was fresh and smiling again : he swung him-
self up, and sat by me, with his hands
clasped round his knees. Then he looked
at me, and said, " I daresay you are sur-
prised? You did not expect to see such
terrors and dangers here? And it is a great
mystery/'

" You must be kind," I said, " and ex-
plain to me what has happened."

" Well," said Amroth, " there is a large
gang of men who infest this place, who

i6o The Child of the Dawn

liave got up here by their agility, and can
go no further, who make it their business
to prevent all they can from coming up.
I confess that it is the hardest thing of
all to understand why it is allowed; but
if you expect all to be plain sailing up here,
you are mistaken. One needs to be wary
and strong. They do much harm here, and
will continue to do it."

" What would liave happened if they had
found us liere? " I said.

"Nothing very much/' said Amroth;
" a good deal of talk no doubt, and some
blows perhaps. But it was well I was
wMth you, because I could have summoned
help. They are not as strong as they
look either — it is mostly fear that aids
them."

" Well, but who are they? " I said.

" They are the most troublesome crew of
all," said Amroth, "and come nearest to
the old idea of fiends — they are indeed the
origin of that notion. To speak plainly,
they are men who have lived virtuous lives,

The Child of the Dawn i6i

and ; have done cruel things from good
motives. \ There are some kings and states-
men among them, but they are mostly
priests and schoolmasters, I imagine — peo-
ple with high ideals, of course! But they
are not replenished so fast as they used to
be, I think. Their difficulty is that they
can never see that they are wrong. Their
notion is that this is a bad place to
come to, and that people are better left in
ignorance and bliss, obedient and submis-
sive. A good many of them have given up
the old rough methods, and hang about the
base of the cliff, dissuading souls from
climbing: they do the most harm of all,
because if one does turn back here, it is long
before one may make a new attempt But
enough of this,^' he added; "it makes me
sick to think of them — the old fellow you
saw with me had an awful fright — ^he was
nearly done as it was! But I see you are
feeling stronger, and I think we had better
be going. One does not stay here by choice,
though the place has a beauty of its own.

ZI

i62 The Child of the Dawn

And now you will have an easier time for
awhile."

We descended from our rock, and Amroth
led the way, through a long cleft, with rocks,
very rough and black, on either side> and
fallen fragments under foot. It was steep
at first; but soon the rocks grew lower;
and we came out presently on to a great
desolate plain, with stones lying thickly
about, among a coarse kind of grass. At
each step I seemed to grow stronger, and
walked more lightly, and in the thin fine
air my horrors left me, though I still had
a dumb sense of suffering which, strange
to say, I found it almost pleasant to resist
And so we walked for a time in friendly
silence, Amroth occasionally indicating the
way. The hill began to slope downwards
very slowly, and the wind to subside. The
mist drew off little by little, till at last
I saw ahead of us a great bare-looking
fortress with high walls and little windows,
and a great blank tower over all.

XVIII

We were received at the guarded door of
the fortress by a porter, who seemed to be
well acquainted with Amroth. Within, it
was a big, bare place, with stone-arched
cloisters and corridors, more like a monas-
tery than a castle. Amroth led me briskly
along the passages, and took me into a large
room very sparely furnished, where an
elderly man sat writing at a table with
his back to the light. He rose when we
entered, and I had a sudden sense that I
was coming to school again, as indeed I
was. Amroth greeted him with a mixture
of freedom and respect, as a well-loved pupil
might treat an old schoolmaster. The man
himself was tall and upright, and serious-
looking, but for a twinkle of humour that
lurked in his eye ; yet I felt he was one who

expected to be obeyed. He took Amroth

163

1 64 The Child of the Dawn

into the embrasure of a window, and talked
with him in low tones. Then he came back
to me and asked me a few questions of
which I did not then understand the drift
— but it seemed a kind of very informal
examination. Then he made us a little bow
of dismissal, and sat down at once to his
writing without giving us another look. Am-
roth took me out, and led me up many stone
stairs, along whitewashed passages, with
narrow windows looking out on the plain,
to a small cell or room near the top of
the castle. It was very austerely furnished,
but it had a little door which took ns out
on the leads, and I then saw what a very
large place the fortress was, consisting of
several courts with a great central tower.

" Where on earth have we got to now? "
I said.

" Nowhere ^ on earth/ ^^ said Amroth.
"You are at school again, and yon will
find it very interesting, I hope and expect,
but it will be hard work. I will tell yon
plainly that you are lucky to be here, be-

The Child of the Dawn 165

cause if you do well, you will have the best
sort of work to do/'

" But what am I to do, and where am
I to go? '' I said. " I feel like a new boy,
with all sorts of dreadful rules in the
background."

" That will all be explained to you,'' said
Amroth. " And now good-bye for the pre-
sent. Let me hear a good report of you,"
he added, with a parental air, "when I
come again. What would not we older fel-
lows give to be back here ! " he added with
a half-mocking smile. "Let me tell you,
D^y boy, you have got the happiest time of
your life ahead of you. Well, be a credit
to your friends ! "

He gave me a nod and was gone. I
stood for a little looking out rather deso-
lately into the plain. There came a brisk
tap at my door, and a man entered. He
greeted me pleasantly, gave me a few direc-
tions, and I gathered that he was one of
the instructors. "You will find it hard
work," he said ; " we do not wa^te time here.

1 66 The Child of the Dawn

But I gather that you have had rather a
troublesome ascent, so yon can rest a
little. When you are required, yon will be
summoned."

When he left me, I still felt very weary,
and lay down on a little couch in the room,
falling presently asleep. I was roused by
the entry of a young man, who said he had
been sent to fetch me : we went down along
the passages, while he talked pleasantly in
low tones about the arrangements of the
place. As we went along the passages, the
doors of the cells kept opening, and we were
joined by young men and women, who spoke
to me or to each other, but all in the same
subdued voices, till at last we entered a
big, bare, arched room, lit by high windows,
with rows of seats, and a great desk or
pulpit at the end. I looked round me in
great curiosity. There must have been sev-
eral hundred people present, sitting in rows.
There was a murmur of talk over the hall,
till a bell suddenly sounded somewhere in
the castle, a door opened, a man stepi)ed

The Child of the Dawn 167

quickly into the pulpit, and began to speak
in a very clear and distinct tone.

The discourse — and all the other dis-
courses to which I listened in the place —
was of a psychological kind, dealing en-
tirely with the relations of human beings
with each other, and the effect and inter-
play of emotions. It was extremely scien-
tific, but couched in the simplest phraseo-
logy, and made many things clear to me
which had formerly been obscure. There
is nothing in the world so bewildering as
the selective instinct of humanity, the rea-
sons which draw people to each other, the
attractive power of similarity and dis-
similarity, the effects of class and caste,
the abrupt approaches of passion, the in-
fluence of the body on the soul and of the
soul on the body. It came upon me with
a shock of surprise that while these things
are the most serious realities in the world,
and undoubtedly more important than any
other thing, little attempt is made by hu-
manity to unravel or classify them. I can-

i68 The Child of the Dawn

not here enter into the details of these
instructions^ which indeed would be unin-
telligible, but they showed me at first what
I had not at all apprehended, namely the
proportionate importance and unimi)ort-
ance of all the passions and emotions which
regulate our relations with other souls.
These discourses were given at regular in-
tervals, and much of our time was spent
in discussing together or working out in
solitude the details of psychological pro-
blems, which we did with the exactness of
chemical analysis.

What I soon came to understand was that
the whole of psychology is ruled by the most
exact and immutable laws, in which there
is nothing fortuitous or abnormal, and that
the exact course of an emotion can be pre-
dicted with perfect certainty if only all the
data are known.

One of the most striking parts of these
discourses was the fact that they were ac-
companied by illustrations. I will describe
the first of these which I saw. The lee-

The Child of the Dawn 169

turer stopped for an instant and held up
his hand. In the middle of one of the side-
walls of the room was a great shallow
arched recess. In this recess there sud-
denly appeared a scene, not as though it
were cast by a lantern on the wall, but as
if the wall were broken down, and showed
a room beyond.

In the room, a comfortably furnished
apartment, there sat two people, a husband
and wife, middle-aged people, who were en-
gaged in a miserable dispute about some
very trivial matter. The wife was shrill
and provocative, the husband curt and con-
temptuous. They were obviously not really
concerned about the subject they were dis-
cussing — it only formed a ground for dis-
agreeable personalities. Presently the man
went out, saying harshly that it was very
pleasant to come back from his work, day
after day, to these scenes; to which the
woman fiercely retorted that it was all his
own fault; and when he was gone, she sat
for a time mechanically knitting, with the

170 The Child of the Dawn

tears trickling down her cheeks, and every
now and then glancing at the door. After
which, with great secrecy, she helped her-
self to some spirits which she took from a
cupboard.

The scene was one of the most vnlgar
and debasing that can be described or imag-
ined; and it was curious to watch the
expressions on the faces of my companions.
They wore the air of trained doctors or
nurses, watching some disagreeable symp-
toms, with a sort of trained and serene
compassion, neither shocked nor grieved.
Then the situation was discussed and ana-
lysed, and various suggestions were made
which were dealt with by the lecturer, in
a way which showed me that there was
much for us to master and to understand.

There were many other such illustrations
given. They were, I discovered, by no
means imaginary cases, projected into our
minds by a kind of mental suggestion, but
actual things happening upon earth. We
saw many strange scenes of tragedy, we had

The Child of the Dawn 171

a glimpse of lunatic asylums and hospitals,
of murder even, and of evil passions of
anger and lust. We saw scenes of grief
and terror ; and, stranger still, we saw many
things that were being enacted not on the
earth, but upon other planets, where tlie
forms and appearances of the creatures con-
cerned were fantastic and strange enough,
but where the motive and the emotion were
all perfectly clear. At times, too, we saw
scenes that were beautiful and touching,
high and heroic beyond words. These
seemed to come rather by contrast a»d for
encouragement ; for the work was distinctly
pathological, and dealt with the disasters
and complications of emotions, as a rule,
rather than with their glories and radiances.
But it was all incredibly absorbing and in-
teresting, though what it was to lead up
to I did not quite discern. What struck
me was the concentration of effort upon hu-
man emotion, and still more the fact that
other hopes and passions, such as ambition
and acquisitiveness, as well as all material

172 The Child of the Dawn

and economic problems, were treated as in-
finitely insignificant, as just the framework
of human life, only interesting in so far as
the baser and meaner elements of circmn-
stance can just influence, refining or coars-
ening, the highest traits of character and
emotion.

We were given special eases, too, to study
and consider, and here I had the fir»t ink-
ling of how far it is possible for disem-
bodied spirits to be in touch with those who
are still in the body.

As far as I can see, no direct intellectual
contact is possible, except under certain cir-
cumstances. There is, of course, a great
deal of thought-vibration taking place in
the world, to which the best analogy is wire-
less telegraphy. There exists an all-per-
vading emotional medium, into which every
thought that is tinged with emotion sends
a ripple. Thoughts which are concerned
with personal emotion send the firmest
ripple into this medium, and all other
thoughts and passions affect it, not in pro-

The Child of the Dawn 173

portion to the intensity of the thought, but
to the nature of the thought. The scale is
perfectly determined and quite unalterable;
thus a thought, however strong and intense,
which is concerned with wealth or with
personal ambition sends a very little ripple
into the medium, while a thought of affec-
tion is very noticeable indeed, and more
noticeable in proportion as it is purer and
less concerned with any kind of bodily pas-
sion. Thus, strange to say, the thought of
a father for a child is a stronger thought
than that of a lover for his beloved. I do
not know the exact scale of force, which
is as exact as that of chemical values — and
of course such emotions are apt to be com-
plex and intricate; but the purer and
simpler the thought is, the greater is its
force. Perhaps the prayers that one prays
for those whom one loves send the strongest
ripple of all. If it happens that two of
these ripples of personal emotion are closely
similar, a reflex action takes place; and
thus is explained the phenomenon which

1 74 The Child of the Dawn

often takes place, the sudden sense of a
friend's personality, if that friend, in ab-
sence, writes one a letter, or bends his
mind intently upon one. It also explains
the way in which some national or cosmic
emotion suddenly gains simultaneons force,
and vibrates in thousands of minds at the
same time.

The body, by its joys and sufferings alike^
offers a great obstruction to these emotional
waves. In the land of spirits, as I have in-
dicated, an intention of congenial wills gives
an instantaneous perception ; but this seems
impossible between an embodied spirit and
a disembodied spirit. The only communica-
tion which seems possible is that of a vague
emotion ; and it seems quite impossible for
any sort of intellectual idea to be directly
communicated by a disembodied spirit to
an embodied spirit.

On the other hand, the intellectual pro-
cesses of an embodied spirit are to a c^tain
extent perceptible by a disembodied spirit;
hut tiie^*^ ^^ ^ '^onfii+ion to this, and that

The Child of the Dawn 175

is that some emotional sympathy must have
existed between the two on earth. If there
is no such sympathy, then the body is an
absolute bar.

I could look into the mind of Amroth and
see his thought take shape, as I could look
into a stream, and see a fish dart from a
covert of weed. But with those still in the
body it is different. And I will therefore
proceed to describe a single experience
which will illustrate my point.

I was ordered to study the case of a
former friend of my own who was still liv-
ing upon earth. Nothing was told me about
him, but, sitting in my cell, I put myself
into communication with him upon earth.
He had been a contemporary of mine at
the university, and we had many interests
in common. He was a lawyer; we did not
very often meet, but when we did meet it
was always with great cordiality and sym-
pathy. I now found him ill and suffering
from overwork, in a very melancholy state.
When I first visited him, he was sitting

176 The Child of the Dawn

alone, in the garden of a little houjae in the
country. I eonld see that he was ill and
sad; he was making pretence to read, but
the book was wholly disregarded.

When I attempted to put my mind faito
communication with his, it was very diffi-
cult to see the drift of his thoughts. I was J
like a man walking in a dense fog, who
can just discern at intervals recognisable
objects as they come within his view; but
there was no general prospect and no dis-
tance. His mind seemed a confused cur-
rent of distressing memories; but there
came a time when his thought dwelt for
a moment upon myself; he wished that I
could be with him, that he might speak of
some of his perplexities. In that instant,
the whole grew clearer, and little by little
I was enabled to trace the drift of his
thoughts. I became aware that though he
was indeed suffering from overwork, yet
that his enforced rest only removed the
mental distraction of his work, and left his
mind free to revive a whole troop of pain-

The Child of the Dawn 177

f ul thoughts. He had been a man of strong
personal ambitions, and had for twenty
years been endeavouring to realise them.
Ifow a sense of the comparative worth-
lessness of his aims had come upon him.
He had despised and slighted other emo-
tions; and his mind had in consequence
drifted away like a boat into a bitter and
barren sea. He was a lonely man, and he was
feeling that he had done ill in not multiply-
ing human emotions and relations. He re-
flected much upon the way in which he had
neglected and despised his home affections,
while he had formed no ties of his own. Now,
too, his career seemed to him at an end,
and he had nothing to look forward to but
a maimed and invalided life of solitude and
failure. Many of his thoughts I could not
discern at all — the mist, so to speak, in-
volved them — while many were obscure to
me. When he thought about scenes and peo-
ple whom I had never known, the thought
loomed shapeless and dark; but when he
thought, as he often did, about his school

12

178 The Child of the Dawn

and university days, and about his home
circle, all of which scenes were familiar to
me, I could read his mind with perfect
clearness. At the bottom of all lay a sense
of deep disappointment and resentment
He doubted the justice of God, and blamed
himself but little for his miseries* It was
a sad experience at first, because he was
falling day by day into more hopeless de-
jection; while he refused the pathetic over-
tures of sympathy which the relations in
whose house he was — a married sister with
her husband and children — offered him.
He bore himself with courtesy and consid-
eration, but he was so much worn with
fatigue and despondency that he could not
take any initiative. But I became aware
very gradually that he was learning the true
worth and proportion of things — and the
months which passed so heavily for him
brought him perceptions of the value of
which he w^as hardly aware. Let me say
that it was now that the incredible swift-
ness of time in the spiritual region made

The Child of the Dawn 179

itself felt for me. A moBth of his suffer-
ings passed to me, contemplating them, like
an hour.

I found to my surprise that his thoughts
of myself were becoming more frequent;
and one day when he was turning over
some old letters and reading a number of
mine, it seemed to me that his spirit almost
recognised my presence in the words which
came to his lips, " It seems like yesterday ! '^
I then became blessedly aware that I was
actually helping him, and that the very in-
tentness of my own thought was quicken-
ing his own.

I discussed the whole case very closely
and carefully with one of our instructors,
who set me right on several points and made
the whole state of things clear to me.

I said to him, " One thing bewilders me ;
it would almost seem that a man's work
upon earth constituted an interruption and
a distraction from spiritual influences. It
cannot surely be that people in the body
should avoid employment, and give them-

i8o The Child of the Dawn

selves to secluded meditation? If the son!
grows fast in sadness and despondency, it
would seem that one should almost have
courted sorrow on earth; and yet I cannot
believe that to be the case."

"No," he said, "it is not the case; the
body has here to be considered. No amoont
of active exertion clouds the eye of the soul,
if only the motive of it is pure and lofty,
and if the soul is only set patiently and
faithfully upon the true end of life. The
body indeed requires due labour and exer-
cise, and the soul can gain health and clear-
ness thereby. But what does cloud the
spirit is if it gives itself wholly up to nar-
row personal aims and ambitions, and uses
friendship and love as mere recreations and
amusements. Sickness and sorrow are not,
as we used to think, fortuitous things; they
are given to those who need them, as high
and rich opportunities; and they come as
truly blessed gifts, when they break a man's
thought oflf from material things, and make
him f?»ii bark nnou the loving affections and

The Child of the Dawn i8i

relations of life. When one re-enters the
world, a woman^s life is sometimes granted
to a spirit, because a woman by circum-
stance and temperament is less tempted to
decline upon meaner ambitions and inter-
ests than a man ; but work and activity are
no hindrances to spiritual growth, so long
as the soul waits upon God, and desires to
learn the lessons of life, rather than to en-
force its own conclusions upon others."

" Yes," I said, " I see that. What, then,
is the great hindrance in the life of men? "

" Authority," he said, " whether given or
taken. That is by far the greatest difficulty
that a soul has to contend with. The know-
ledge of the true conditions of life is so
minute and yet so imperfect, when one is
in the body, that the man or woman who
thinks it a duty to disapprove, to correct,
to censure, is in the gravest danger. In
the first place it is so impossible to dis-
entangle the true conditions of any human
life; to know how far those failures which
are lightly called sins are inherited in-

1 82 The Child of the Dawn

stiDcts of the body, or the manifestation of
immatupity of spirit. Complacency, hard
righteousness, spiritual security, severe
judgments, are the real foes of spiritual
growth; and if a man is in a position to
enforce his influence and his will upon
others, he can fall very low indeed^ and
suspend his own growth for a very long
and sad period. It is not the criticism or
the analysis of others which hurts the soul,
so long as it remains modest and sincere and
conscious of its own weaknesses. It is when
we indulge in secure or compassionate com-
parisons of our own superior worth that we
go backwards."

This was but one of the many cases which
I had to investigate. I do not say that this
is the work of all spirits in the other world
— it is not so; there are many kinds of
work and occupation. This was the one
now allotted to me ; but I did become aware
of the intense and loving interest which is
bent upon the souls of the living by those
who are departed. There is not a soul alive

The Child of the Dawn 183

who is not being thus watched and tended,
and helped, as far as help is possible; for
no one is ever forced or compelled or fright-
ened into truth, only drawn and wooed by
love and care.

I must say a word, too, of the great and
noble friendships which I formed at this
period of my existence. We were not free
to make many of these at a time. Love
seems to be the one thing that demands an
entire concentration, and though in the
world of spirits I became aware that one
could be conscious of many of the thoughts
of those about me simultaneously, yet the
emotion of love, in the earlier stages, is
single and exclusive.

I will speak of two only. There were a
young man and a young woman who were
much associated with me at that time, whom
I will call Philip and Anna. Philip was
one of the most beautiful of all the spirits
I ever came near. His last life upon earth
had been a long one, and he had been a
teacher. I used to tell him that I wished

1 84 The Child of the Dawn

I had been under him as a pupil^ to which
he replied, laughing, that I should have
found him very uninteresting. He said to
me once that the way in which he had al-
ways distinguished the two kinds of teachan
on earth had been by whether they were
always anxious to teach new books and new
subjects, or went on contentedly with the
old. " The pleasure,'' he said, " was in the
teaching, in making the thought clear, in
tempting the boys to find out what they
knew all the time; and the oftener I taught
a subject the better I liked it; it was like
a big cog-wheel, with a number of little
cog-wheels turning with it. But the men
who were always wanting to change their
subjects were the men who thought of their
own intellectual interest first, and very little
of the small interests revolving upon it."
The charm of Philip was the charm of ex-
treme ingenuousness combined with daring
insight. He never seemed to be shocked or
distressed by anything. He said one day,
'^ It was Tiot t^e sensual or the timid or the

The Child of the Dawn 185

ill-tempeped boys who used to make me
anxious. Those were definite faults and
brought definite punishment; it was the
hard-hearted, virtuous, ambitious, sensible
boys, who were good-humoured and respect-
able and selfish, who bothered me; one
wanted to shake them as a terrier shakes
a rat — ^but there was nothing to get hold
of. They were a credit to themselves and
to their parents and to the school; and yet
they went downhill with every success.''

Anna was a woman of singularly un-
selfish and courageous temperament. She
had been, in the course of her last life upon
earth, a hospital nurse; and she used to
speak gratefully of the long periods when
she was nursing some anxious case, when
she had interchanged day and night, sleep-
ing when the world was awake, and sitting
with a book or needlework by the sick-bed,
through the long darknesfs. "People used
to say to me that it must be so depressing;
but those were my happiest hours, as the
dark brightened into dawn, when many of

1 86 The Child of the Dawn

the strange mysteries of life and pain and
death gave up their secrets to me. But of
course/' she added with a smile, " it was all
very dim to me. I felt the tmth rather
than saw it; and it is a great joy to me
to perceive now what was hapx>eiiing, and
how the sad, bewildered hours of pain and
misery leave their blessed marks upon the
soul, like the tools of the graver on the
gem. If only we could learn to plan a little
less and to believe a little more, how much
simpler it would all be ! "

These two became very dear to me, and
I learnt much heavenly wisdom from them
in long, quiet conferences, where we spoke
frankly of all we had felt and known.

XIX

It was at this time, I think, that a great
change came over my thoughts, or rather
that I realised that a great change had grad-
ually taken place. Till now, I had been
dominated and haunted by memories of my
latest life upon earth ; but at intervals there
had visited me a sense of older and purer
recollections. I cannot describe exactly
how it came about — and, indeed, the memory
of what my heavenly progress had hitherto
been, as opposed to my earthly experience,
was never very clear to me; but I became
aware that my life in heaven — I will call it
heaven for want of a better name — was my
real continuous life, my home-life, -so to
speak, while my earthly lives had been, to
pursue the metaphor, like terms which a

boy spends at school, in which be is aware

187

1 88 The Child of the Dawn

that he not only learns definite and tangible
things, but that his character is hardened
and consolidated by coming into contact
with the rougher facts of life — duty, respon-
sibility, friendships, angers, treacheries,
temptations, routine. The boy returns with
gladness to the serener and sweeter atmos-
phere of home; and just in the same way
I felt I had returned to the larger and purer
life of heaven. But, as I say, the recollec-
tion of my earlier life in heaven, my occu-
pations and experience, was never clear to
me, but rather as a luminous and haunting
mist. I questioned Amroth about this once,
and he said that this was the nniversal
experience, and that the earthly lives one
lived were like deep trenches cut across a
path, and seemed to interrupt the heavenly
sequence; but that as the spirit grew more
pure and wise, the consciousness of the
heavenly life became more distinct and se-
cure. But he added, what I did not quite
understand, that there was little need of
memory in the life of heaven, and that it was

The Child of the Dawn 189

to a great extent the inheritance of the body.
Memory, he said, was to a great extent an
interruption to life ; the thought of past fail-
ures and mistakes, and especially of unkind-
nesses and misunderstandings, tended to
obscure and complicate one's relations with
other souls; but that in heaven, where ac-
tivity and energy were untiring and unceas-
ing, one lived far more in the emotion and
work of the moment, and less in retrospect
and prospect. What mattered was actual
experience and the effect of experience;
memory itself was but an artistic method of
dealing with the past, and corresponded to
fanciful and delightful anticipations of the
future. " The truth is,'' he said, " that the
indulgence of memory is to a great extent a
mere sentimental weakness; to live much in
recollection is a sign of exhausted and de-
pleted vitality. The further you are re-
moved from your last earthly life, the less
tempted you will be to recall it. The high-
est spirits of all here," he said, "have no
temptation ever to revert to retrospect, be-

190 The Child of the Dawn

cause the pure energies of the moment are
all-sustaining and all-sufficing."

The only trace I ever noticed of any
memory of my past life in heaven was that
things sometimes seemed surprisingly fa-
miliar to me, and that I had the sense of
a serene permanence, which possessed and
encompassed me. Indeed I came to believe
that the strange feeling of permanence
which haunts one upon earth, when one is
happy and content, even though one knows
that everything is changing and shifting
around one, and that all is precarious and
uncertain, is in itself a memory of the serene
and untroubled continuance of heaven, and
a desire to taste it and realise it.

Be this as it may, from the time of my
finding my settled task and ordered place in
the heavenly community the memories of
my old life upon earth began to fade from
my thoughts. I could, indeed, always re-
call them by an effort, but there seemed less
and less inclination to do so the more I
became absorbed in my heavenly activities.

The Child of the Dawn 191

One thing I noticed in these days; it
surprised me very greatly, till I reflected
that my surprise was but the consequence
of the strange and mournful blindness with
regard to spiritual things in which we live
under the dark skies of earth. We have
there a false idea that somehow or other
death takes all the individuality out of a
man, obliterating all the whims, prejudices,
the thorny and unreasonable dislikes and
fancies, oddities, tempers, roughnesses, and
subtlenesses from a temperament. Of course
there are a good many of these things which
disappear together with the body, such as
the glooms, suspicions, and cloudy irritabil-
ities, which are caused by fatigue and
malaise, and by ill-health generally. But
a man's whims and fancies and dislikes do
not by any means disappear on earth when
he is in good health; on the contrary, they
are often apt to be accentuated and em-
phasised when he is free from pain and
care and anxiety, and riding blithely over
the waves of life. Indeed there are men

192 The Child of the Dawn

whom I have known who are never kind
or sympathetic till they are in some wear-
ing trouble of their own; when they are
prosperous and cheerful, they are frankly
intolerable, because their mirth turns to
derision and insolence.

But one of the reasons why the heavenly
life is apt to appear in prospect so weari-
some a thing is, because we are brought up
to feel that the whole character is flattened
out and charged with a serene kind of
priggishness, which takes all the salt out
of life. The word "saintly,*^ so terribly
misapplied on earth, grows to mean, to
many of us, an irritating sort of kindness,
which treats the interests and animated
elements of life with a painful condescen-
sion, and a sympathy of which the basis is
duty rather than love. The true sanctifica-
tion, which I came to perceive something
of later, is the result of a process of endless
patience and infinite delay, and the attain-
ment of it implies a humility, seven times
refined in the fires of self-contempt, in

The Child of the Dawn 193

which there remains no smallest touch of
superiority or aloofness. How utterly de-
pressing is the feigned interest of the im-
perfect human saint in matters of mundane
concern! How it takes at once both the
joy out of holiness and the spirit out of
human effort! It is as dreary as the pro-
fessional sympathy of the secluded student
for the news of athletic contests, as the
tolerance of the shrewd man of science for
the feminine logic of religious sentiment !

But I found to my great content that
whatever change had passed over the spirits
of my companions, they had at least lost
no fibre of their individuality. The change
that had passed over them was like the
change that passes over a young man, who
has lived at the University among dilet-
tante literary designs and mild sociological
theorising, when he finds himself plunged
into the urgent practical activities of the
world. Our happiness was the happiness
which comes of intense toil, with no fatigue
to dog it, and from a consciousness of the

194 The Child of the Dawn

vital issues which we were pursuing.
But my companions had still intellectual
faults and preferences, self-confidence, crit-
ical intolerance, boisterousness, wilfulness.
Stranger still, I found coldness, anger,
jealousy, still at work. Of course in the
latter case reconciliation was easier, both
in the light of common enthusiasm and,
still more, because mental communication
was so much swifter and easier than it had
been on earth. There was no need of those
protracted talks, those tiresome explana-
tions which clever people, who really love
and esteem each other, fall into on earth
— the statements which affirm nothing, the
explanations which elucidate nothing, be-
cause of the intricacies of human speech and
the fact that people use the same words
with such different implications and mean-
ings. All those became unnecessary, be-
cause one could pierce instantaneously into
the very essence of the soul, and manifest,
without the need of expression, the regard
and affection which lay beneath the cross-

The Child of the Dawn 195

currents of emotion. But love and aflfee-
tion waxed and waned in heaven as on
earth; it was weakened and it was trans-
ferred. Few souls are so serene on earth
as to see with perfect equanimity a friend,
whom one loves and trusts, becoming ab-
sorbed in some new and exciting emotion,
which may not perhaps obliterate the ori-
ginal regard, but which must withdraw
from it for a time the energy which fed
the flame of the intermitted relation.

It was very strange to me to realise the
fact that friendships and intimacies were
formed as on earth, and that they lost their
freshness, either from some lack of real con-
geniality or from some divergence of de-
velopment. Sometimes, I may add, our
teachers were consulted by the aggrieved,
sometimes they even intervened unasked.

I will freely confess that this all im-
mensely heightened the interests to me of
our common life. One could see two spirits
drawn together by some secret tie of emo-
tion, and one could see some further influ-

196 The Child of the Dawn

ence strike across and suspend it. One case
of this I will mention, wliich is typical of
many. There came among ns an extremely
lively and rather whimsical spirit, more like
a boy than a man. I wondered at first why
he was chosen for this work, because he
seemed both fitful and even capricions; but
I gradually realised in him an extraor-
dinary fineness of perception, and a swift-
ness of intuition almost unrivalled. He
had a power of weighing almost by instinct
the constituent elements of character, which
seemed to me something like the power of
tonality in a musician, the gift of recognis-
ing, by pure faculty, what any notes may
be, however confusedly jangled on an in-
strument. It was wonderful to me how
often his instantaneous judgments proved
more sagacious than our carefullj formed
conclusions.

This boy became extraordinarily attrac-
tive to an older woman who was one of our
number, who was solitary and abstracted,
and of an intense seriousness of devotion

The Child of the Dawn 197

to her work. It was evident both that she
felt his charm intensely and that her dis-
position was wholly alien to the disposition
of the boy himself. In fact, she simply
bored him. He took all that he did lightly,
and achieved by an intense momentary con-
centration what she could only achieve by
slow reflection. This devotion had in it
something that was strangely pathetic, be-
cause it took the form in her of making
her wish to conciliate the boy's admiration,
by treating thoughts and ideas with a light-
ness and a humour to which she could by
no means attain, and which made things
worse rather than better, because she could
read so easily, in the thoughts of others,
the impression that she was attempting a
handling of topics which she could not in
the least accomplish. But advice was use-
less. There it was, the old, fierce, constrain-
ing attraction of love, as it had been of
old, making havoc of comfortable arrange-
ments, attempting the impossible; and yet
one knew that she would gain by the pro-

198 The Child of the Dawn

cess, that she was opening a door in to
heart that had hitherto been closed, and
learning a largeness of view and e^Trnpath;
in the process. Her fanlt had ever been,
no doubt, to estimate slow and accurate
methods too highly, and to believe that all
was insecure and untrustworthy that waB
not painfully accumulated. Now she sav
that genius could accomplish without effort
or trouble what no amount of homely energy
could effect, and a new horizon was unveiled
to her. But on the boy it did not seem
to have the right result. He might have
learned to extend his sympathy to a nature
so dumb and plodding; and this coldness
of his called down a rebuke of what seemed
almost undue sternness from one of our
teachers. It was not given in my presence,
but the boy, bewildered by the severity
which he did not anticipate, coupled indeed
with a hint that he must be prepared, if
he could not exhibit a more elastic gfym-
pathy, to have his course suspended in
favour of some more simple discipline told

The Child of the Dawn 199

me the whole matter. " What am I to do? "
he said. " I cannot care for Barbara ; her
whole nature upsets me and revolts me. I
know she is very good and all that, but I
simply am not myself when she is by; it
is like taking a run with a tortoise ! ''

" Well/' I said, " no one expects you to
give up all your time to taking tortoises
for runs; but I suppose that tortoises have
their rights, and must not be jerked along
on their backs, like a sledge.''

" Oh," said he, " you are all against me,
I know; and I am not sure that this
place is not rather too solemn for me.
What is the good of being wiser than the
aged, if one has more commandments to
keep? "

Things, however, settled down in time.
Barbara, I think, must have been taken to
task as well, because she gave up her at-
tempts at wit; and the end of it was that
a quiet friendship sprang up between the
incongruous pair, like that between a way-
ward young brother and a plain, kindly,

200 The Child of the Dawn

and elderly sister, of a very fine and
chiyalrous kind.

It must not be thought that we spent our
time wholly in these emotional relations.
It was a place of hard and urgent work;
but I came to realise that, just as on earth,
institutions like schools and colleges, where
a great variety of natures are gathered m
close and daily contact, are shot through
and through with strange currents of emo-
tion, which some people pay no attention
to, and others dismiss as mere sentimen-
tality, so it was also bound to be beyond,
with this difference, that whereas on earth
we are shy and awkward with our friend-
ships, and all sorts of physical complica-
tions intervene, in the other world they
assume their frank importance. I saw that
much of what is called the serious business
of life is simply and solely necessitated by
bodily needs, and is really entirely tempo-
rary and trivial, while the real life of the
soul, which underlies it all, stifled and sub-
dued, pent-up uneasily and cramped un-

The Child of the Dawn 201

y like a bright spring of water under
aperincumbent earth, finds its way at

the light. On earth we awkwardly
3 this impulse; we speak of the rela-
of the soul to others and of the re-
i of the soul to God as two separate
s. We pass over the words of Christ
5 Gospel, which directly contradict this,
;v^hich make the one absolutely depen-
on, and conditional on, the other. We
: of human affection as a thing which
come in between the soul and God,
s it is in reality the swiftest access
3P. We speak as though ambition were

made more noble, if it sternly ab-

all multiplication of human tender-

We speak of a life which sacrifices

fial success to emotion as a failure and

•responsible affair. The truth is the

se opposite. AH the ambitions which

their end in personal prestige are

y barren ; the ambitions which aim at

1 amelioration have a certain nobility
: them, though they substitute a tor-

2Q2 The Child of the Dawn

tnous by-path for a direct highway. And
the plain truth is that all social ameliora-
tion would grow up as naturally and as
fragrantly as a flower, if we could but refine
and strengthen and awaken our slumbering
emotions, and let them grow out freely to
gladden the little circle of earth in which
we live and move.

It was at this time that I had a memorable
interview with the Master of the College.
He appeared very little among us, though
he occasionally gave us a short instruction,
in which he summed up the teaching on a
certain point. He was a man of extraor-
dinary impressiveness, mainly, I think, be-
cause he gave the sense of being occupied
in much larger and wider interests. I often
pondered over the question why the short,
clear, rather dry discourses which fell from
his lips appeared to be so far more weighty
and momentous than anything else that
was ever said to us. He used no arts of
exhortation, showed no emotion, seemed
hardly conscious of our presence; and if
one caught his eye as he spoke, one became
aware of a curious tremor of awe. He never

made any appeal to our hearts or feelings :

203

204 The Child of the Dawn

but it always seemed as if he had cm-
descended for a moment to put aside far
bigger and loftier designs in order to drop
a fruit of ripened wisdom in our way. He
came among us^ indeed, like a statesman
rather than like a teacher. The brief inter-
views we had with him were regarded with
a sort of terror, but produced, in me at
least, an almost fanatical respect and ad-
miration. And yet I had no reason to sup-
I)ose that he was not, like all of us, subject
to the law of life and pilgrimage though
one could not conceive of him as having
to enter the arena of life again as a help-
less child !

On this occasion I was summoned sud-
denly to his presence. I found him, as
usual, bent over his work, which he did
not intermit, but merely motioned me to
be seated. Presently he put away his
papers from him, and turned round npon
me. One of the disconcerting things about
him was the fact that his thought had a
peculiarly compelling tendency, and that

The Child of the Dawn 205

while he read one's mind in a flashy his
own thoughts remained very nearly im-
penetrable. On this occasion he commended
me for my work and my relations with my
fellow-students, adding that I had made
rapid progress. He then said, " I have two
questions to ask you. Have you any special
relations, either with any one whom you
have left behind you on earth, or with any
one with whom you have made acquaintance
since you quitted it, which you desire to
pursue? ''

I told him, which was the truth, that
since my stay in the College I had become
so much absorbed in the studies of the place
that I seemed to have became strangely
oblivious of my external friends, but that it
was more a suspension than a destruction
of would-be relations.

" Yes,'' he said, " I perceive that that is
your temperament. It has its effectiveness,
no doubt, but it also has its dangers; and,
whatever happens, one ought never to be able
to accuse oneself justly of any disloyalty.^'

2o6 The Child of the Dawn

He seemed to wait for me to speak, where-
upon I mentioned a very dear friend of my
days of earth; but I added that most of
those Tvhom I had loved best had prede-
ceased me, and that I had looked forward
to a renewal of our intercourse. I also
mentioned the names of Charmides and
Cynthia, the latter of whom was in memory
strangely near to my heart.

He seemed satisfied with thia Then he
said, " It is true that we have to multiply
relationships with others, both in the world
and out of it; but we must also practise
economy. We must not abandon ourselves
to passing fancies, or be subservient to
charm, while if we have made an emo-
tional mistake, and have been disappointed
with one whom we have taken the trouble
to win, we must guard such conquests with
a close and peculiar tenderness. But
enough of that, for I have to ask you if
there is any special work for which you
feel yourself disposed. There is a great
choice of employment here. You may

The Child of the Dawn 207

choose, if you will, just to live the spiritual
life and discharge whatever duties of citi-
zenship you may be called upon to perform.
That is what most spirits do. I need not
perhaps tell you " — here he smiled — " that
freedom from the body does not confer upon
any one, as our poor brothers and sisters
upon earth seem to think, a heavenly voca-
tion. Neither of course is the earthly
fallacy about a mere absorption in worship
a true one — only to a very few is that con-
ceded. Still less is this a life of leisure.
To be leisurely here is permitted only to
the wearied, and to those childish creatures
with whom you have spent some time in
their barren security. I do not think you are
suited for the work of recording the great
scheme of life, nor do I think you are made
for a teacher. You are not sufficiently
impartial! For mere labour you are not
suited ; and yet I hardly think you would be
fit to adopt the most honourable task which
your friend Amroth so finely fulfils — a
guide and messenger. What do you think? ''

2o8 The Child of the Dawn

I said at once that I did Bot wish to
have to make a decision, but that I pre-
ferred to leave it to him. I added that
though I was conscious of mj deficiencies,
I did not feel conscious of any particular
capacities, except that I found character a
very fascinating study, especially in connec-
tion with the circumstances of life upon
earth.

" Very well," he said, " I think that yon
may perhaps be best suited to the work oi
deciding what sort of life will best befit the
souls who are prepared to take up their
life upon earth again. That is a task of
deep and infinite concern; it may surprise
you," he added, " to learn that this is left
to the decision of other souls. But it is, of
course, the goal at which all earthly social
systems are aiming, the right apportion-
ment of circumstances to temperament^ and
you must not be surprised to find that here
we have gone much further in that direc-
tion, though even here the system is not
perfected; and you cannot begin to appre-

The Child of the Dawn 209

hend that fact too soon. It is unfortunate
that on earth it is commonly believed, owing
to the deadening influence of material
causes, that beyond the grave everything is
done with a Divine unanimity. But of
course, if that were so, further growth and
development would be impossible, and in
view of infinite perfectibility there is yet
very much that is faulty and incomplete.
But I am not sure what lies before you;
there is something in your temperament
which a little baffles me, and our plans may
have to be changed. Your very absorption
in your work, your quick power of forget-
ting and throwing off impressions has its
dangers. But I will bear in mind what
you have said, and you may for the present
resume your studies, and I will once more
commend you ; you have done well hitherto,
and I will say frankly that I regard you as
capable of useful and honourable work."
He bowed in token of dismissal, and I went
back to my work with unbounded gratitude

and enthusiasm.

14

Some time after this I was surprised one
morning at the sudden entrance of Amroth
into my cell. He came in with a very bri^t
and holiday aspect, and, assuming a pa-
ternal air, said that he had heard a yeiy
creditable account of my work and conduct,
and that he had obtained leave for me to
have an exeat. I suppose that I showed
signs of impatience at the interruption, for
he broke into a laugh, and said, " Well, I
am going to insist. I believe you are work-
ing too hard, and we must not overstrain
our faculties. It was bad enough in the
old days, but then it was generally the poor
body which suffered first. But indeed it is
quite possible to overwork here, and you
have the dim air of the pale student
Come," he said, " whatever happens, do not
become priggish. Not to want a holiday is

2IO

The Child of the Dawn 211

a sign of spiritual pride. Besides, I have
some curious things to show you."

I got up and said that I was ready, and
Amroth led the way like a boy out for a
holiday. He was brimming over with talk,
and told me some stories about my friends
in the land of delight, interspersing them
with imitation of their manner and gesture,
which made me giggle — Amroth was an ad-
mirable mimic. " I had hopes of Char-
mides," he said; "your stay there aroused
his curiosity. But he has gone back to his
absurd tones and half-tones, and is nearly
insupportable. Cynthia is much more sen-
sible, but Lucius is a nuisance, and Char-
mides, by the way, has become absurdly
jealous of him. They really are very silly ;
but I have a pleasant plot, which I will
unfold to you."

As we went down the interminable stairs,
I said to Amroth, " There is a question I
want to ask you. Why do we have to go
and come, up and down, backwards and for-
wards, in tliis absurd way, as if we were

212 The Child of the Dawn

still in the body? Why not just slip off
the leads, and fly down over the crags like
a pair of pigeons? It all seems to me ao
terribly material.'^

Amroth looked at me with a smile. ^1
don-t advise you to try," he said. "Why,
little brother, of course we are just as
limited here in these waya The material
laws of earth are only a type of the laws
here. They all have a meaning which re-
mains true."

" But," I said, " we can visit the earth
with incredible rapidity?"

" How can I explain? " said Amroth.
"Of course we can do that, because the
]naterial universe is so extremely small in
comparison. All the stars in the world are
here but as a heap of sand, like the motes
which dance in a sunbeauL There is no
question of size, of course! But there is
such a thing as spiritual nearness and
spiritual distance for all that. The souls
who do not return to earth are very far ofl^
as you will sometime see. But we mes-

The Child of the Dawn 213

lengers have our short cute, and I shall
;ake advantage of them to-day."

We went out of the great door of the
'ortress, and I felt a sense of relief. It
vas good to put it all behind one. For a
ong time I talked to Amroth about all my
loings. " Come," he said at last, " this will
lever do ! You are becoming something of
I bore! Do you know that yo^ir talk is
rerj provincial? You seem to have for-
gotten about every one and everything ex-
cept your Philips and Annas — very worthy
creatures, no doubt — and the Master, who
s a very able man, but not the little demi-
god you believe. You are hypnotised! It
s indeed time for you to have a holiday.
^Thy, I believe you have half forgotten about
ne, and yet you made a great fuss when I
quitted you."

I smiled, frowned, blushed. It was in-
ieed true. Now that he was with me I
oved him as well, indeed better than ever;
lut I had not been thinking very much
ibout him.

214 The Child of the Dawn

We went over the moorlands in the keen
air, Aniroth striding cleanly and lightlj
over the heather. Then we began to de-
scend into the valley, through a fine forest
country, somewhat like the chestnnt-woods
of the Apennines. The view was of incom-
parable beauty and width. I conld see a
great city far out in the plain, with a river
entering it and leaving it, like a ribbon of
silver. There were rolling ridges beyond.
On the left rose huge, shadowy, snow^-clad
hills, rising to one tremendous dome of
snow.

" Where are you going to take me? '' I
said to Amroth.

"Never mind," said he; "it's my day
and my plan for once. Yon shall see what
you shall see, and it will amuse me to hear
your ingenuous conjectures."

We were soon oh the outskirts of the city
we had seen, which seemed a different kind
of place from any I had yet visited. It was
built, I perceived, upon an exactly conceived
plan, of a stately, classical kind of architec-

The Child of the Dawn 215

ture, with great gateways and colonnades.
There were people about, rather silent and
serious-looking, soberly clad, who saluted us
as we passed, but made no attempt to talk
to us. "This is rather a tiresome place,
I always think," said Amroth; "but you
ought to see it."

We went along the great street and
peached a square. I was surprised at the
elderly air of all we met. We found our-
selves opposite a great building with a
dome, like a church. People were going in
under the portico, and we went in with
them. They treated us as strangers, and
made courteous way for us to pass.

Inside, the footfalls fell dumbly upon a
great carpeted floor. It was very like a great
church, except that there was no altar or
sign of worship. At the far end, under an
alcove, was a statue of white marble gleam-
ing white, with head and hand uplifted.
The whole place had a solemn and noble
air. Out of the central nave there opened
a series of great vaulted chapels; and I

21 6 The Child of the Dawn

could now see that in each chapel there was
a dark figure, in a sort of pulpit, addressing
a standing audience. There were names on
scrolls over the doors of the light iron-work
screens which separated the chapels from
the nave, but they were in a language I
did not understand.

Amroth stopped at the third of the
chapels, and said, "Here, this will do."
We came in, and as before there was a
courteous notice taken of us. A man in
black came forward, and led us to a high
seat, like a pew, near the preacher, from
which we could survey the crowd* I was
struck with their look of weariness com-
bined with intentness.

The lecturer, a young man, had made a
pause, but upon our taking our places, he
resumed his speech. It was a discourse, as
far as I could make out, on the develop-
ment of poetry; he was speaking of lyrical
poetry. I will not here reproduce it. I
will only say that anything more acute, deli-
cate, and discriminating, and, I must add,

The Child of the Dawn 217

more entirely valueless and pedantic, I do
not think I ever heard. It must have re-
quired immense and complicated knowledge.
He was tracing the development of a certain
kind of dramatic lyric, and what surprised
me was that he supplied the subtle intellec-
tual connection, the missing links, so to
speak, of which there is no earthly record.
Let me give a single instance. He was
accounting for a rather sudden change of
thought in a well-know^n poet, and he
showed that it had been brought about by
his making the acquaintance of a certain
friend who had introduced him to a new
range of subjects, and by his study of cer-
tain books. These facts are unrecorded in
his published biography, but the analysis
of the lecturer, done in a few pointed sen-
tences, not only carried conviction to the
mind, but just, so to speak, laid the truth
bare. And yet it was all to me incredibly
sterile and arid. Not the slightest interest
was taken in the emotional or psychological
side; it was all purely and exactly scientific.

21 8 The Child of the Dawn

We waited until the end of the address,
which was greeted with decorous applanse,
and the hall was emptied in a moment

We visited other chapels where the same
sort of tiling was going on in other subjects.
It all produced in me a sort of stupefac-
tion, both at the amazing knowledge in-
volved, and in the essential futility of it
all.

Before we left the building we went np
to the statue, wliich represented a female
figure, looking upw^ards, with a pure and
delicate beauty of form and gesture that
was inexpressibly and coldly lovely.

We went out in silence, which seemed
to be the rule of the place.

When we came away from the building
we were accosted by a very grave and
courteous person, who said that he i>er-
ceived that we were strangers, and asked
if he could be of any service to us, and
whether we proposed to make a stay of any
duration. Amroth thanked him, and said
smilingly that we were only passing

The Child of the Dawn 219

through. The gentleman said that it was
a pity, because there was much of interest
to hear. " In this place," he said with a
deprecating gesture, " we grudge every hour
that is not devoted to thought." He went
on to inquire if we were following any par-
ticular line of study, and as our answers
were unsatisfactory, he said that we could
not do better than begin by attending the
school of literature. " I observed," he said,
^^ that you were listening to our Professor,
Sylvanus, with attention. He is devoting
himself to the development of poetical form.
It is a rich subject. It has generally been
believed that poets work by a sort of native
inspiration, and that the poetic gift is a
sort of heightening of temperament. But
Sylvanus has proved — I think I may go so
far as to say this — that this is all pure
fancy, and what is worse, unsound fancy.
It is all merely a matter of heredity, and
the apparent accidents on which poetical
expression depends can be analysed exactly
and precisely into the most commonplace

220 The Child of the Dawn

and simple elements. It is only a question
of proportion. Now we who value clear-
ness of mind above everything, find this a
very refreshing thought. The real crown
and sum of human achievement, in the in-
tellectual domain, is to see things clearly
and exactly, and upon that clearness all
progress depends. We have disposed by
tins time of most illusions; and the same
scientific method is being strenuously ap-
plied to all other processes of human en-
deavour. It is even hinted that Sylvanus
has practically proved that the imaginative
element in literature is purely a taint of
barbarism, though he has not yet announced
the fact. But many of his class are looking
forward to his final lecture on the subject as
to a profoundly sensational event, which is
likely to set a deep mark upon all our con-
ceptions of literary endeavour. So that,''
he said with a tolerant smile, gently rubbing
his hands together, " our life here is not by
any means destitute of the elements of ex-
citement, though we most of us, of course.

The Child of the Dawn 22 1

aim at the acquisition of a serene and philo-
sophic temper. But I must not delay
you," he added ; " there is much to see and
to hear, and you will be welcomed every-
where: and indeed I am myself somewhat
closely engaged, though in a subject which
is not fraught with such polite emoUience.
I attend the school of metaphysics, from
which we have at last, I hope, eliminated
the last traces of that debasing element of
psychology, which has so long vitiated the
exact study of the subject."

He took himself oflE with a bow, and I
gazed blankly at Amroth. " The conversa-
tion of that very polite person," I said, " is
like a bad dream! What is this extraor-
dinarily depressing place? Shall I have to
undergo a course here? "

" No, my dear boy," said Amroth. " This
is rather out of your depth. But I am
somewhat disappointed at your view of the
situation. Surely these are all very import-
ant matters? Your disposition is, I am
afraid, incurably frivolous! How could

222 The Child of the Dawn

people be more worthily employed than in
getting rid of the last traces of intellectual
error, and in referring everything to its
actual origin? Did not your heart burn
within you at his luminous exjiosition? I
had always thought you a boy of intellectnal
promise."

" Amroth," I said, " I will not be made
fun of. This is the most dreadful place I
liave ever seen or conceived of! It fright-
ens nie. The dryness of pure science is
terrifying enough, but after all that has a
kind of strange beauty, because it deals
either witli transcendental ideas of mathe-
matical relation, or with the deducing of
principle from accumulated facta But
here the object appears to be to eliminate
tlie human element from humanity. I in-
sist upon knowing where you have brought
me, and what is going on h^e."

'' Well, then," said Amroth, " I will con-
ceal it from you no longer. This is the
paradise of thought, where meagre and
spurious pliilosophers, and all who have

The Child of the Dawn 223

submerged life in intellect, have their re-
ward. It is^ as you say, a very dreary place
for children of nature like you and me.
But I do not suppose that there is a hap-
pier or a busier place in all our dominions.
The worst of it is that it is so terribly hard
to get out of. It is a blind alley and leads
nowhere. Every step has to be retraced.
These people have to get a very severe dose
of homely life to do them any good; and
the worst of it is that they are so entirely
virtuous. They have never had the time or
the inclination to be anything else. And
they are among the most troublesome and
undisciplined of all our people. But I see
you have had enough ; and unless you wish
to wait for Professor Sylvanus's sensational
pronouncement, we will go elsewhere, and
have some other sort of fun. But you must
not be so much upset by these things.^'

" It would kill me," I said, " to hear any
more of these lectures, and if I had to
listen to much of our polite friend's con-
versation, I should go out of my mind. I

224 The Child of the Dawn

would rather fall into the hands of the
cragmen ! I would rather have a stand-np
fight than be slowly stifled with interesting
information. But where do these unhappy
people come from? "

" A few come from universities," said
Amroth, " but they are not as a rule really
learned men. They are more the sort of
people who subscribe to libraries, and be-
long to local literary societies, and go into
a good many subjects on their owu account
But really learned men are almost always
more aware of their ignorance than of their
knowledge, and recognise the vitality of
life, even if they do not always exhibit it
But come, we are losing time, and we must
go further afield."

XXII

We went some considerable distance, after
leaving our intellectual friends, through
very beautiful wooded country, and as we
went we talked with much animation about
the intellectual life and its dangers. It
had always, I confess, appeared to me a
harmless life enough; not very effective,
perhaps, and possibly liable to encourage
a man in a trivial sort of self-conceit; but
I had always looked upon that as an in-
stinctive kind of self-respect, which kept an
intellectual person from dwelling too sorely
upon the sense of ineffectiveness ; as an ad-
diction not more serious in its effects upon
character than the practice of playing
golf, a thing in which a leisurely person
might immerse himself, and cultivate a de-
cent sense of self-importance. But Amroth

showed me that the danger of it lay in
« 225

226 The Child of the Dawn

the tendency to consider the intellect to be
the basis of all life and progress. "Tbe
intellectual man," he said, ^' is inclined to
confnse his own acute perception of the
movement of thought with the originating
impulse of that movement. But of course
thought is a thing which ebbs and flows,
like public opinion, according to its own
laws, and is not originated but only per-
ceived by men of intellectual ability. The
danger of it is a particularly arid sort of
self-conceit. It is as if the Lady of Shalott
were to suppose that she created life by
observing and rendering it in her magic
web, whereas her devotion to her task
simply isolates her from the contact with
other minds and hearts, which is the one
thing worth having. That is, of course,
the danger of the artist as well as of the
philosopher. They both stand aside from
the throng, and are so much absorbed in
the aspect of thought and emotion that they
do not realise that they are separated from
it. They are consequently spared, when

The Child of the Dawn 227

they come here, the punishment which falls
upon those who have mixed greedily, self-
ishly, and cruelly with life, of which you
will have a sight before long. But that
place of punishment is not nearly so sad
or depressing a place as the paradise of
delight, and the paradise of intellect, be-
cause the sufferers have no desire to stav
there, can repent and feel ashamed, and
therefore can suffer, which is always hope-
ful. But the artistic and intellectual have
really starved their capacity for suffering,
the one by treating all emotion as spec-
tacular, and the other by treating it as a
puerile interruption to serious things. It
takes people a long time to work their way
out of self-satisfaction! But there is an-
other curious place I wish you to visit.
It is a dreadful place in a way, but by no
means consciously unhappy," and Amroth
pointed to a great building which stood on
a slope of the hill above the forest, with
a wide and beautiful view from it. Before
very long we came to a high stone wall with

228 The Child of the Dawn

a gate carefully guarded. Here Amroth
said a few words to a porter, and we went
up through a beautiful terraced park. In
the park we saw little knots of jieople walk-
ing aimlessly about, and a few more soli-
tary figures. But in each case they were
accompanied by people whom I saw to be
warders. We passed indeed close to an
elderly man, rather fantastically dressed,
wlio looked possessed with a kind of flighty
clieerfulness. He was talking to himself
with odd, emphatic gestures, as if he were
ticking off the points of a speech. He came
up to us and made us an effusive greeting,
praising the situation and convenience of
the place, and wishing us a pleasant so-
journ. He then was silent for a moment,
and added, ^' Now there is a matter of some
importance on which I should like your
opinion." At this the warder who was with
him, a strong, stolid-looking man, with an
expression at once slightly contemptuous
and obviously kind, held up his hand and
said, "You will, no doubt, sir, r^nember

The Child of the Dawn 229

that you have undertaken — " " Not a word,
not a word," said our friend ; " of course
you are right! I have really nothing to
say to these gentlemen."

We went up to the building, which now
became visible, with its long and stately
front of stone. Here again we were ad-
mitted with some precaution, and after a
few minutes there came a tall and bene-
volent-looking man, to whom Amroth spoke
at some length. The man then came up to
me, said that he was very glad to welcome
me, and that he would be delighted to show
us the place.

We went through fine and airy corridors,
into which many doors, as of cells, opened.
Occasionally a man or a woman, attended
by a male or a female warder, passed us.
The inmates had all the same kind of air
— a sort of amused dignity, which was very
marked. Presently our companion opened
a door with his key and we went in. It
was a small, pleasantly-furnished room.
Some books, apparently of devotion, lay on

230 The Child of the Dawn

the table. There was a little kneeling-desk
near the window^ and the room had a half-
monastic air abont it. When we entered,
an elderly man, with a very serene face,
was looking earnestly into the door of a
cupboard in the wall, which he was holding
open; there was, so far as I could see,
nothing in the cupboard; but the inmate
seemed to be struggling with an access of
rather overpowering mirth. He bowed to
us. Our conductor greeted him respect-
fully, and then said, " There is a stranger
here who would like a little conversation
with you, if you can spare the time."

" By all means," said the inmate, with a
very ingratiating smila " It is very kind
of him to call upon me, and my time is
entirely at his disposal."

Our conductor said to me that he and
Amroth had some brief business to transact,
and that they would call for me again in
a moment. The inmate bowed, and seemed
almost impatient for them to depart. He
motioned me to a chair, and the moment

The Child of the Dawn 231

they left us he began to talk with great
animation. He asked me if I was a new
inmate, and when I said no, only a visitor,
he looked at me compassionately, saying
that he hoped I might some day attain to
the privilege. " This," he said, " is the
abode of final and lasting peace. No one
is admitted here unless his convictions
are of the firmest and most ardent char-
acter; it is a reward for faithful service.
But as our time is short, I must tell you,"
he said, "of a very curious experience I
have had this very morning — a spiritual
experience of the most reassuring character.
You must know that I held a high official
position in the religious world — I will men-
tion no details — and I found at an early
age, I am glad to say, the imperative neces-
sity of forming absolutely impregnable con-
victions. I went to work in the most busi-
ness-like way. 1 devoted some years to
hard reading and solid thought, and I
found that the sect to which I belonged
was lacking in certain definite notes of di-

232 The Child of the Dawn

vine truth, while the ireight of eyidoice
pointed in the clearest possible manna to
the fact that one particular Bection of the
Church had preserved absolutely intact the
primitive faith of the Saints, and was with-
out any shadow of doubt the perfectly
logical development of the principles of the
Gospel. Mine is not a nature that can
admit of compromise; and at considerable
sacrifice of worldly prospects I transferred
my allegiance, and was instantly rewarded
by a perfect serenity of conviction which
has never faltered.

" I had a friend with whom I had often
discussed the matter, who was much Ox my
way of thinking. But though I showed him
the illogical nature of his position, he hung
back — whether from material motives or
from mere emotional associations I will not
now stop to inquire. But I could not
palter with the truth. I expostulated with
him, and pointed out to him in the sternest
terms the eternal distinctions involved. I
broke oflE all relations with him ultimately.

1 The Child of the Dawn 233

f And after a life spent in the most solemn
and candid denunciation of the fluidity of
religious belief, which is the curse of our
age, though it involved me in many of the
heart-rending suspensions of human inter-
course with my nearest and dearest so
plainly indicated in the Gospel, I passed
at length, in complete tranquillity, to my
final rest. The first duty of the sincere be-
liever is inflexible intolerance. If a man
will not recognise the truth when it is
plainly presented to him, he must accept
the eternal consequences of his act — separa-
tion from God, and absorption in guilty
and awestruck regret, which admits of no
repentance.

" One of the privileges of our sojourn
here is that we have a strange and beauti-
ful device — a window, I will call it — which
admits one to a sight of the spiritual world.
I was to-day contemplating, not without
pain, but with absolute confidence in its
justice, the sufferings of some of these lost
souls, and I observed, I cannot say with

234 The Child of the Dawn

satisfaction, bnt with complete sabm
the form of my friend, whom my testis r
might have saved, in eternal misery. I
have the tenderest heart of any man alive.
It has cost me a sore stm^le to snbdne it
— it is more unruly even than the will-
but you may imagine that it is a matter
of deep and comforting assurance to reflect
that on earth the door, the one door, to
salvation is clearly and plainly indicated
— though few there be that find it — and
that this signal mercy has been yonchsafed
to me. I have then the i>eace of knowing,
not only that my choice was right, but that
all those to whom the truth is revealed have
the power to choose it. I am a firm be-
liever in the uncovenanted mercies vouch-
safed to those who have not had the
advantages of clear presentment, but for
the deliberately unfaithful, for all sinners
against light, the sentence is inflexible."

He closed his eyes, and a smile played
over his features.

I found it very difficult to say anything

1 The Child of the Dawn 235

in answer to this monologue; but I asked

1 my companion whether he did not think

i that some clearer revelation might be

i made, after the bodily death, to those who

for some human frailty were unable to

receive it.

" An intelligent question," said my com-
I panion, " but I am obliged to answer in the
negative. Of course the case is different
for those who have accepted the truth loy-
ally, even if their record is stained by the
foulest and most detestable of crimes. It
is the moral and intellectual adhesion that
matters; that once secured, conduct is
comparatively unimportant, if the soul duly
recurs to the medicine of penitence and con-
trition so mercifully provided. I have the
utmost indulgence for every form of human
frailty. I may say that I never shrank
from contact with the grossest and vilest
forms of continuous wrong-doing, so long as
I was assured that the true doctrines were
unhesitatingly and submissively accepted.
A soul which admits the supremacy of

236 The Child of the Dawn

authority can go astray like a sheep thai
is lost, but as long as it recognises its fold
and the authority of the divine law, it can
be sought and found.

" The little window of which I spoke has
given me indubitable testimony of this.
There was a man I knew in the flesh, who
was regarded as a monster of cruelty and
selfis'hness. He ill-treated his wife and mis-
used his children; his life was spent m
gross debauchery, and his conduct on sev-
eral occasions outstepped the sanctions of
legality. He was a forger and an em-
bezzler. I do not attempt to palliate I
faults, and there will be a heavy reckon-
ing to pay. But he made his submission
at the last, after a long and prostrating
illness ; and I have ocular demonstration of
the fact that, after a mercifully brief period
of suflfering, he is numbered among the
blest. That is a sustaining thought,"

He then with much courtei^ invited me
to partake of some refreshment, which I
gratefully declined. Once or twice he rose,

» The Child of the Dawn 237

* id opening the little cupboard door, which
revealed nothing but a white wall, he drank
in encouragement from some hidden sight.
He then invited me to kneel with him, and
prayed fervently and with some emotion

' that light might be vouchsafed to souls on
earth who were in darkness. Just as he
concluded, Amroth appeared with our con-
ductor. The latter made a courteous in-
quiry after my host's health and comfort.
" I am perfectly happy here,'' he said,
" perfectly happy. The attentions I receive
are indeed more than I deserve; and I
am specially grateful to my kind visitor,
whose indulgence I must beg for my some-
what prolonged statement — but when one
has a cause much at heart," he added
with a smile, " some prolixity is easily /
excused." j

As we re-entered the corridor, our con-
ductor asked me if I would care to pay
any more visits. " The case you have seen,"
he said, " is an extremely typical and in-
teresting one."

238 The Child of the Dawn

" Have you any hope,'' said AmTOth, *
recovery? ''

"Of course, of course," said our con-
ductor with a smile. " Nothing is hope-
less here; our cures are complete and even
rapid; but this is a particularly obstinate
one ! ''

"Well,'' said Amroth, "would yon like
to see more? "

" No," I said, " I have seen enough. I
cannot now bear any more."

Our conductor smiled indulgently.

"Yes," he said, "it is bewildering at
first; but one sees wonderful things here I
This is our library," he added^ leading us
to a great airy room, full of books and
reading-desks, where a large number of in-
mates were sitting reading and writing.
They glanced up at us with friendly and
contented smiles. A little further on we
came to another cell, before which onr con-
ductor stopped, and looked at me. " I
should like," he said, " if you are not too
tired, just to take you in here; there is

The Child of the Dawn 239

a patient, who is very near recovery indeed,
in here, and it would do him good to have
a little talk with a stranger/'

I bowed, and we went in. A man was
sitting in a chair with his head in his hands.
An attendant was sitting near the window
reading a book. The patient, at our entry,
removed his hands from his face and looked
up, half impatiently, with an air of great
suffering, and then slowly rose.

" How are you feeling, dear sir? '' said
our conductor quietly.

" Oh,'' said the man, looking at us, " I
am better, much better. The light is break-
ing in, but it is a sore business, when I
was so strong in my pride."

" Ah," said our guide, " it is indeed a
slow process ; but happiness and health must
be purchased; and every day I see clearly
that you are drawing nearer to the end of
your troubles — ^you will soon be leaving us !
But now I want you kindly to bestir your-
self, and talk a little to this friend of ours,
w^ho has not been long with us, and finds

240 The Child of the Dawn

the place somewhat bewildering. You will
be able to tell him something of what is
passing in your mind; it will do you good
to put it into words, and it will be a help
to him/'

"Very well," said the man gravely, "I
will do my best." And the others with-
drew, leaving me with the man. When th^
had gone, the man asked me to be seated,
and leaning his head upon his hand he said,
" I do not know how much you know and
how little, so I will tell you that I left
the world very confident in a particular
form of faith, and very much disposed to
despise and even to dislike those who did
not agree witli me. I had lived, I may say,
uprightly and purely, and I will confess
that I even welcomed all signs of laxity
and sinfulness in my opponents, because it
proved what I believed, that wrong con-
duct sprang naturally from wrong belief.
I came here in great content, and thought
that this place was the reward of faithful
living. But I had a great shock. I was

1

The Child of the Dawn 241

very tenderly attached to one whom I left
on earth, and the severest grief of my life
^as that she did not think as I did, but
used to plead with me for a wider outlook
and a larger faith in the designs of God.
She used to say to me that she felt that
God had different ways of saving diflferent
people, and that people were saved by love
and not by doctrine. And this I combated
with all my might. I used to say, ^Doc-
trine first, and love afterwards,' to which
she often said, ^ No, love is first ! '

" Well, some time ago I had a sight of
her; she had died, and entered this world
of ours. She was in a very diflferent place
from this, but she thought of me witjhout
ceasing, and her desire prevailed. I saw
her, though I was hidden from her, and
looked into her heart, and discerned that
the one thing which spoiled her joy was
that I was parted from her.

" And after that I had no more delight
in my security. I began to suflfer and to

yearn. And then, little by little, I began

16

242 The Child of the Dawn

to see tliat it is love after all which binds
us together, and which draws us to fiod;
but my diffieulty is this, that I still believe
that my faith is true ; and if that is true,
then other faiths cannot be true also, and
then I fall into sad bewilderment and de-
spair." He stopped and looked at me
fixedly.

"But," I said, "if I may carry the
thought further, might not all be true?
Two men may be very unlike each other
in form and face and thought — yet both
are very man. It would be foolish arguing,
if a man were to say, ' I am indeed a man,
and because my friend is unlike me — ^taller,
lighter-complexioned, swifter of thought—
therefore he cannot be a man.' Or, again,
two men may travel by the same road, and
see many different things, yet it is the
same road they have both travelled; and
one need not say to the other, * You cannot
have travelled by the same road, becanse
you did not see the violets on the bank
under the wood, or the spire that peeped

The Child of the Dawn 243

through the trees at the folding of the
valleys — and therefore you are a liar and
a deceiver ! ' If one believes firmly in one's
own faith, one need not therefore say that
all who do not hold it are perverse and
wilful. There is no excuse, indeed, for not
holding to what we believe to be true, but
there is no excuse either for interfering
with the sincere belief of another, unless
one can persuade him he is wrong. Is not
the mistake to think that one holds the
truth in its entirety, and that one has no
more to learn and to perceive? I myself
should welcome diflferences of faith, because
it shows me that faith is a larger thing
even than I know. What another sees may
be but a thought that is hidden from me,
because the truth may be seen from a dif-
ferent angle. To complain that we cannot
see it all is as foolish as when the child
is vexed because it cannot see the back of
the moon. And it seems to me that our
duty is not to quarrel with others who see
things that we do not see, but to rejoice

244 The Child of the Dawn

with them, if they will allow ns, and mean-
wliile to discern what is shown to us as
faithfully as we can/'

The man heard me with a strange smile
*'Yes," he said, "you are certainly ri^t,
and I bless the goodness that s^it yon
liither; but when you are gone^ I doubt
that I shall fall back into my old perplex-
ities, and say to myself that though men
may see different parts of the same thing,
they cannot see the same thing differently.''

" I think," I said, " that even that is pos-
sible, because on earth things are often
mere symbols, and clothe themselves in
material forms; and it is the form which
deludes us. I do not myself doubt that
grace flows into us by very different chan-
nels. We may not deny the claim of any
one to derive grace from any source or
symbol that he can. The only thing we
may and must dare to dispute is the claim
that only by one channel may grace flow.
But I think that the words of the one whom
you loved, of whom you spoke^ are indeed

The Child of the Dawn 245

true, and that the love of each other and
of God is the force which draws us, by
whatever rite or symbol or doctrine it may
be interpreted. That, as I read it, is the
message of Christ, who gave up all things
for utter love."

As I said this, our guide and Amroth
entered the cell. The man rose up quickly,
and drawing me apart, thanked me very
heartily and with tears in his eyes; and
so we said farewell. When we were out-
side, I said to the guide, " May I ask you
one question? Would it be of use if I
remained here for a time to talk with that
poor man? It seemed a relief to him to
open his heart, and I would gladly be with
him and try to comfort him."

The guide shook his head kindly. " No,"
he said, " I think not. I recognise your
kindness very fully — but a soul like this
must find the way alone; and there is one
who is helping him faster than any of us
can avail to do; and besides," he added,
" he is very near indeed to his release."

246 The Child of the Dawn

So we went to the door^ and said fare-
well; and Amroth and I went forward.
Then I said to him as we went down
through the terraced garden, and saw the
inmates wandering about, lost in dreams,
^^ This must be a sad place to live in,
Amroth ! "

" No, indeed," said he, " I do not think
that tliere are any happier than those who
have tlie cliarge here. When the patiwits
are in the grip of this disease, they are
themselves only too well content; and it is
a blessed thing to see the approach of doabt
and suffering, which means that health
draws near. There is no place in all our
realm where one sees so clearly and beanti-
fully the instant and perfect mercy of God,
and the joy of pain." And so we passed
together out of the guarded gate.

XXIII

" Well," said Amroth, with a smile, as we
went out into the forest, " I am afraid that
the last two visits have been rather a strain.
We must find something a little less seri-
ous; but I am going to fill up all your
time. You had got too much taken up with
your psychology, and we must not live too
much on theory, and spin problems, like
the spider, out of our own insides; but we
will not spend too much time in trudging
over this country, though it is well worth
it. Did you ever see anything more beauti-
ful than those pine-trees on the sloi)e there,
with the blue distance between their stems?
But we must not make a business of land-
scape-gazing like our friend Charmides!
We are men of affairs, you and I. Come,
I will show you a thing. Shut your eyes

247

248 The Child of the Dawn

for a minute and give me your hand.
Now : "

A sudden breeze fanned my face^ sweet
and odorous, like the wind oat of a wood.
" Now," said Amroth, " we bave arrived!
Where do you think we are? "

The scene had changed in an instant
We were in a wide, level country, in green
water-meadows, with a full stream brim-
ming its grassy banks, in willowy loopfi.
Not far away, on a gently rising ground,
lay a long, straggling village, of gabled
houses, among high trees. It was like
the sort of village that yon may find in
the pleasant Wiltshire countryside, and the
sight filled me with a rush of old and joyful
memories.

" It is such a relief," I said, " to real-
ise that if man is made in the image
of Gk)d, heaven is made in the image of
England ! "

" Tliat is only how you see it, child,"
said Amroth. " Some of my own happiest
days were spent at Tooting: would you be

The Child of the Dawn 249

surprised if I said that it reminded me of
Tooting? ''

" I am surprised at nothing," I said. " I
only know that it is all very considerate ! "

We entered the village, and found a large
number of people, mostly young, going
cheerfully about all sorts of simple work.
Many of them were gardening, and the gar-
dens were full of old-fashioned flowers,
blooming in wonderful profusion. There
was an air of settled peace about the place,
the peace that on earth one often dreamed
of finding, and indeed thought one had
found on visiting some secluded place — only
to discover, alas ! on a nearer acquaintance,
that life was as full of anxieties and cares
there as elsewhere. There were one or two
elderly people going about, giving directions
or advice, or lending a helping hand. The
workers nodded blithely to us, but did not
suspend their work.

" What surprises me," I said to Amroth,
" is to find every one so much occupied wher-
ever we go. One heard so much on earth

250 The Child of the Dawn

about craving for rest, that one grew to
fancy that the other life was all going to
be a sort of solemn meditation^ with an
occasional hymn."

" Yes, indeed,'- said Amroth, " it was the
body til at was tired — the soul is always
fresh and strong — but rest is not idleness.
There is no such thing as unemployment
here, and there is hardly time, indeed, for
all we have to do. Every one really loves
work. The child plays at working, the man
of leisure works at his play. The diflference
here is that work is always amusing — there
is no such tiling as drudgery here."

We walked all through the village, which
stretched far away into the country. The
whole place hummed like a beehive on a
July morning. Many sang to themselves
as they went about their business, and
sometimes a couple of girls, meeting in the
roadway, would entwine their arms and
dance a few steps together, with a kiss at
parting. There w^as a sense of high spirits
everywhere. At one place we found a

The Child of the Dawn 251

group of children sitting in the shade of
some trees, while a woman of middle age
told them a story. We stood awhile to
listen, the woman giving us a pleasant nod
as we approached. It was a story of some
pleasant adventure, with nothing moral or
sentimental about it, like an old folk-tale.
The children were listening with uncon-
cealed delight.

When we had walked a little further,
Amroth said to me, " Come, I will give
you three guesses. Who do you think, by
the light of your psychology, are all these
simple people? " I guessed in vain. " Well,
I see I must tell you," he said. "Would
it surprise you to learn that most of these
people whom you see here passed upon
earth for wicked and unsatisfactory char-
acters? Yet it is true. Don't you know
the kind of boys there were at school, who
drifted into bad company and idle ways,
mostly out of mere good-nature, went out
into the world with a black mark against
tliem, having been bullied in vain by virtu-

252 The Child of the Dawn

ous masters, the despair of their parents,
always losing their employments, and often
coming what we used to call social crop- '
pers — untrustworthy, sensual, feckless, no
one's enemy but their own, and yet preserv-
ing through it all a kind of simple good-
nature, always ready to share things with
others, never knowing how to take ad-
vantage of any one, trusting the most
untrustworthy people; or if they w^ere girls,
getting into trouble, losing their good name,
perhaps living lives of shame in big cities
— yet, for all that, guileless, affectionate,
never excusing themselves, believing they
liad deserved anything that befell thfem?
These were the sort of people to whom
Christ was so closely drawn. They have
no respectability, no conventions; they act
upon instinct, never by reason, often fool-
ishly, but seldom unkindly or selfishly.
They give all they have, they never take.
They have the faults of children, and the
trustful affection of children. They will
do anything for any one w^ho is kind to

The Child of the Dawn 253

them and fond of them. Of courise they
are what is called hopeless, and they use
their poor bodies very ill. In their last
stages on earth they are often very deplor-
able objects, slinking into public-houses,
plodding raggedly and dismally along high-
roads, suffering cruelly and complaining
little, conscious that they are universally
reprobated, and not exactly knowing why.
They are the victims of society; they do
its dirty work, and are cast away as off-
scourings. They are really youthful and
often beautiful spirits, very void of offence,
and needing to be treated as children. They
live here in great happiness, and are con-
scious vaguely of the good and great in-
tention of God towards them. They suffer
in the world at the hands of cruel, selfish,
and stupid people, because they are both
humble and disinterested. But in all our
realms I do not think there is a place of
simpler and sweeter happiness than this,
because they do not take their forgiveness
as a right, but as a gracious and unexpected

254 The Child of the Dawn

boon. And indeed the sights and sounds
of this place are the best medicine for
crabbed, worldly, conventional sonlSy who
are often brought here when they are draw-
ing near the truth.''

"Yes," I said, "this is just what I
wanted. Interesting as my work has lately
been, it has wanted simplicity. I have
grown to consider life too much as a series
of cases, and to forget that it is life itself
that one must seek, and not pathology.
This is the best sight I have seen, for it
is so far removed from all sense of judg-
ment. The song of the saints may be
sometimes of mercy too.''

XXIV

^* And now/' said Amroth, ^^ that we have
been refreshed by the sight of this guile-
less place, and as our time is running short,
I am going to show you something very
serious indeed. In fact, before I show it
you I must remind you carefully of one
thing which I shall beg you to keep in mind.
There is nothing either cruel or hopeless
here; all is implacably just and entirely
merciful. Whatever a soul needs, that it
receives; and it receives nothing that is
vindictive or harsh. The ideas of punish-
ment on earth are hopelessly confused; we
do not know whether we are revenging our-
selves for wrongs done to us, or safeguard-
ing society, or deterring would-be offenders,
or trying to amend and uplift the criminal.

We end, as a rule, by making every one

255

256 The Child of the Dawn

concerned, whether pnnisher or punished,
worse. We encourage each other in vin-
dictiveness and hypocrisy, we cow and
brutalise the transgressor. We rescue no
one, we amend nothing. And yet we can-
not read the clear signs of all this. The
milder our methods of punishment become,
the less crime is there to punish. But in-
stead of being at once kind and severe,
which is perfectly possible, we are both
cruel and sentimental. Now, there is no
such thing as sentiment here, just as there
is no cruelty. There is emotion in full
measure, and severity in full measure; no
one is either pettishly frightened or mildly
forgiven ; and the joy that awaits us is all
the more worth having, because it cannot
be rashly enjoyed or reached by any short
cuts; but do not forget, in what you now
see, that the end is joy.'^

He spoke so solemnly that I was con-
scious of overmastering curiosity, not un-
mixed with aw^e. Again the way was
abbreviated. Amroth took me by the hand

The Child of the Dawn 257

and bade me close my eyes. The breeze
beat upon my face for a moment. When
I opened my eyes, we were on a bare hill-
side, full of stones, in a kind of grey and
chilly haze which filled the air. Just ahead
of us were some rough enclosures of stone,
overlooked by a sort of tower. They were
like the big sheepfolds which I have seen
on northern wolds, into which the sheep of
a whole hillside can be driven for shelter.
We went round the wall, which was high
and strong, and came to the entrance of
the tower, the door of which stood open.
There seemed to be no one about, no sign
of life; the only sound a curious wailing
note, which came at intervals from one of
the enclosures, like the crying of a prisoned
beast. We went up into the tower; the
staircase ended in a bare room, with four
apertures, one in each wall, each leading
into a kind of balcony. Amroth led the
way into one of the balconies, and pointed
downwards. We were looking down into

one of the enclosures which lay just at our

17

258 The Child of the Dawn

feet, not very far below. The place was
l)erfectly bare, and roughly flagged with
stones. In the comer was a rongh thatched
shelter. In which was some straw. But
what at once riveted my attention was the
figure of a man, who half lay, half crouched
upon the stones, his head in his hands, in
an attitude of utter abandonment. He was
dressed in a rough, weather-worn sort of
cloak, and his whole appearance suggested
the basest neglect; his hands were muscular
and knotted ; his ragged grey hair streamed
over the collar of his cloak. While we
looked at him, he drew himself up into a
sitting posture, and turned his face blankly
upon tlie sky. It was, or had been, a noble
face enough, deeply lined, and with a look
of command upon it; but anything like the
hopeless and utter misery of the drawn
cheeks and staring eyes I had never con-
ceived. I involuntarily drew back, feeling
that it was almost wrong to look at any-
thing so fallen and so wretched. But
Amroth detained me.

The Child of the Dawn 259

" He is not aware of us/' he said, " and
I desire you to look at him."

Presently the man rose wearily to his
feet, and began to pace up and down round
the walls, with the mechanical movements
of a caged animal, avoiding the posts of the
shelter without seeming to see them, and
then cast himself down again upon the
stones in a paroxysm of melancholy. He
seemed to have no desire to escape, no
energy, except to suffer. There was no
hope about it all, no suggestion of prayer,
nothing but blank and unadulterated
suffering.

Amroth drew me back into the tower,
and motioned me to the next balciny.
Again I went out. The sight that I saw
was almost more terrible than the first,
because the prisoner here, penned in a
similar enclosure, was more restless, and
seemed to suffer more acutely. This was
a younger man, who walked swiftly and
vaguely about, casting glances up at the
wall which enclosed him. Sometimes he

26o The Child of the Dawn

stopped, and seemed to be pursuing some
dreadful train of solitary thought; he ge^!-
tieulated, and even broke out into mutter-
ings and cries — the cries that I had heard
from without. I could not bear to look
at this sights and coming back, besou^t
Amroth to lead me away. Amroth, who was
himself, I perceived, deeply moved, and stood
with lips compressed, nodded in token of
assent. We went quickly down the stairway,
and took our way up the hill among the
stones, in silence. The shapes of similar en-
closures were to be seen everywhere, and
the indescribable blankness and grimness of
the scene struck a chill to my heart.

From the top of the ridge we could see
the same bare valleys stretching in all
directions, as far as the eye could see. The
only other building in sight was a great
circular tower of stone, far down in the
valley, from which beat the pulse of some
heavy machinery, which gave the sense, I
do not know how, of a ghastly and watchful
life at the centre of all.

The Child of the Dawn 261

" That is the Tower of Pain," said Am-
roth, " and I will spare you the inner sight
of that. Only our very bravest and strong-
est can enter there and preserve any hope.
But it is well for you to know it is there,
and that souls have to enter it. It is
thence that all the pain of countless worlds
emanates and vibrates, and the governor of
the place is the most tried and bravest of
all the servants of God. Thither we must
go, for you shall have sight of him, though
you shall not enter."

We went down the hill with all the speed
we might, and, I will confess it, with the
darkest dismay I have ever experienced
tugging at my heart. We were soon at the
foot of the enormous structure. Amroth
knocked at the gate, a low door, adorned
with some vague and ghastly sculptures,
things like worms and huddled forms
drearily intertwined. The door opened,
and revealed a fiery and smouldering light
within. High up in the tower a great
wheel whizzed and shivered, and moving

262 The Child of the Dawn

shadows crossed and recrossed the firelit ■
walls. I

But the figure that came out to us—
how shall I describe him? It was the most
beautiful and gracious sight of all that I
saw in my pilgrimage. He was a man of
tall stature, with snow-white, silvery hair
and beard, dressed in a dark cloak with a
gleaming clasp of gold. But for all his age
lie liad a look of immortal youth. His clear
and piercing eye had a glance of infinite
tenderness, such as I had never conceived.
There were many lines upon his brow and
round his eyes, but his complexion was as
fresh as that of a child, and he stepped as
briskly as a youth. We bowed low to him,
and lie reached out his hands, taking Ani-
roth's hand and mine in each of his. His
touch had a curious thrill, the hand that
held mine being firm and smooth and won-
derfully warm.

" Well, my children," he said in a clear,
youthful voice, " I am glad to see you, be-
cause there are few who come hither will-

The Child of the Dawn 263

ingly; and the old and weary are cheered
by the sight of those that are young and
strong. Amroth I know. But who are
you, my child? You have not been among
us long. Have you found your work and
place here yet?" I told him my story in
a few words, and he smiled indulgently.
" There is nothing like being at work,"
he said. " Even my business here, which
seems sad enough to most people, must be
done; and I do it very willingly. Do not
be frightened, my child," he said to me
suddenly, drawing me nearer to him, and
folding my arm beneath his own. j^" It is
only on earth that we are frightened of
pain ; it spoils our poor plans, it makes us
fretful and miserable, it brings us into the
shadow of death. But for all that, as Am-
roth knows, it is the best and most fruitful
of all the works that the Father does for
man, and the thing dearest to His heart.
We cannot prosper till we suffer, and suf-
fering leads us very swiftly into joy and
peace. Indeed this Tower of Pain, as it is

264 The Child of the Dawn

called, is in fact nothing bnt the Tourer of
Love. Not until love is touched with |
does it become beautiful, and the joy that
comes through pain is the only real thing
in the world. Of course, when my great
engine here sends a thrill into a careles
life, it comes as a dark surprise; but then
follow courage and patience and wonder,
and all the dear tendance of Love. I have
borne it all myself a hundred times, and
I shall bear it again if the Father wills it
But when you leave me here, do not think
of me as of one who works, grim and in-
different, wrecking lives and destroying
homes. It is but the burning of the weeds
of life ; and it is as needful as the sunshine
and the rain. Pain does not wander aim-
lessly, smiting down by mischance and by
accident; it comes as the close and dear
intention of the Father's heart, and is to
a man as a trumpet-call from the land of
life, not as a knell from the land of death.
And now, dear children, you must leave me,
for I have much to do. And I will give

The Child of the Dawn 265

/

you/' he added, turning to me, " a gift which
shall be your comfort, and a token that you
have been here, and seen the worst and the
best that there is to see/^

He drew from under his cloak a ring, a
circlet of gold holding a red stone with a
flaming heart, and put it on my finger.
There pierced through me a pang intenser
than any I had ever experienced, in which
all the love and sorrow I had ever known
seemed to be suddenly mingled, and which
left behind it a perfect and intense sense
of joy.

" There, that is my gift," he said, " and
you shall have an old man's loving blessing
too, for it is that, after all, that I live for.'^
He drew me to him and kissed me on the
brow, and in a moment he was gone.

We walked away in silence, and for my
part with an elation of spirit which I could
hardly control, a desire to love and suffer,
and do and be all that the mind of man
could conceive. But my heart was too full
to speak.

266 The Child of the Dawn

" Come," said Amroth presently, " yon
are not as grateful as I had hoped— you
are outgrowing me! Come down to m;
poor level for an instant, and beware of
spiritual pride!" Then altering his tone
he said, "Ah, yes, dear friend, I under
stand. There is nothing in the world
like it, and you were most graciously and
tenderly received — ^but the end is not
yet."

" Amroth," I said, " I am like one intoxi-
cated with joy. I feel that I could endure
anything and never make question of any-
thing again. How infinitely good he was
to me — like a dear father ! "

" Yes," said Amroth, " he is very like the
Father " — and he smiled at me a mysterious
smile.

" Amroth," I said, bewildered, " you can-
not mean ?"

" No, I mean nothing," said Amroth, " but
you have to-day looked very far into the
truth, farther than is given to many so
soon; but you are a child of fortune, and

The Child of the Dawn 267

seem to please every one. I declare that
a little more would make me jealous."

Presently, catching sight of one of the
enclosures hard by, I said to Amroth, " But
there are some questions I must ask. What
has just happened had put it mostly out
of my head. Those poor suffering souls
that we saw just now — it is well, with them,
I am sure, so near the Master of the Tower
— he does n^t forget them, I am sure — but
who are they, and what have they done to
suffer so? "

" I will tell you,'' said Amroth, " for it
is a dark business. Those two that you
have seen — well, you will know one of them
by name and fame, and of the other you
may have heard. The first, that old shaggy-
haired man, who lay upon the stones, that
was "

He mentioned a name that was notorious
in Europe at the time of my life on earth,
though he was then long dead; a ruthless
and ambitious conqueror, who poured a
cataract of life away, in wars, for his own

268 The Child of the Dawn

aggrandisement. Then he mentioned ;
other name, a statesman who pursued a
policy of terrorism and oppression, enriched
himself by barbarous cruelty exercised in
colonial possessions, and was famous
the calculated libertinism of his private
life.

" They were great sinners," said Amroth,
^^ and the sorrows they made and flung so
carelessly about them, beat back upon them
now in a surge of pain. These men were
strangely affected, each of them, by the
smallest sight or sound of suffering — a tor-
tured animal, a crying child; and yet they
were utterly ruthless of the pain that they
did not see. It was a lack, no doubt, of
the imagination of which I spoke, and which
makes all the difference. And now they
have to contemplate the pain which they
could not imagine; and they have to learn
submission and humility. It is a terrible
business in a way — the loneliness of it!
There used to be an old saying that the
strongest man was the man that was most

7 The Child of the Dawn 269

i alone. But it was just because these men
I practised loneliness on earth that they have
to suffer so. They used others as counters
in a game, they had neither friend nor be-
loved, except for their own pleasure. They
depended upon no one, needed no one, de-
sired no one. But there are many others
here who did the same on a small scale —
selfish fathers and mothers who made homes
miserable; boys who were bullies at school
and tyrants in the world, in offices, and
places of authority. This is the place of
discipline for all base selfishness and vile
authority, for all who have oppressed and
victimised mankind.^'

" But,'' I said, " here is my difficulty. I
understand the case of the oppressors well
enough; but about the oppressed, what is
the justice of that? Is there not a fortui-
tous element there, an interruption of the
Divine plan? Take the case of the thou-
sands of lives wasted by some brutal con-
queror. Are souls sent into the world for
that, to be driven in gangs, made to fight.

270 The Child of the Dawn

let ns Raj, for some abominable caiuei and |
then recklessly dismissed from life?"

" All," said Amroth, " you make too mwh
of the dignity of life! Yon do not knot
how small a thing a single life i% not
regards the life of mankind, but in the 1
of one individual. Of course if a man had
but one single life on earth, it would be an
intolerable injustice; and that is the factor
which sets all straight, the factor which
most of us, in our time of bodily self-im-
portance, overlook. These oppressors have
no power over other lives except what God
allows, and bewildered humanity concedes.
Not only is the great plan whole in the
mind of God, but every single minutest life
is considered as well. In the very case you
spoke of, the little conscript, torn from his
Iiome to fight a tyrant's battles, hectored
and ill-treated, and then shot down upon
some crowded battle-field, that is precisely
tlie discipline which at that point of time
his soul needs, and the blessedness of which
he afterwards perceives; sometimes dis-

The Child of the Dawn 271

cipline is swift and urgent, sometimes it
is slow and lingering: but all experience
is exactly apportioned to the quality of
which each soul is in need. The only rea-
son why there seems to be an element of
chance in it, is that the whole thing is so
inconceivably vast and prolonged; and our
happiness and our progress alike depend
upon our realising at every moment that
the smallest joy and the most trifling plea-
sure, as well as the tiniest ailment or the
most subtle sorrow, are just the pieces of
experience which we are meant at that
moment to use and make our own. No
one, not even God, can force us to under-
stand this; we have to perceive it for
ourselves, and to live in th' knowledge of
it."

" Yes," I said, " it is true, all that. My
heart tells me so; but it is very wonderful
and mysterious, all the same. But, Am-
roth, I have seen and heard enough. My
spirit desires with all its might to be at
its own work, hastening on the mighty end.

272 The Child of the Dawn

Now, I can hold no more of wonders. Let
me return."

"Yes," said Amroth, "yon are ri^tl
These wonders are so familiar to me that
I forget, perhaps, the shock with which thej
come to minds nnnsed to them. Yet there
are other things which you mnst assnredlj
see, when the time comes; but I must not
let you bite off a larger piece than yon
can swallow."

He took me by the hand; the breese
passed through my hair; and in an instant
we were back at the fortress-gate, and I
entered the beloved shelter, with a grateful
sense that I was returning home.

%

m

XXV

^'I RETURNED, as I Said, with a sense of
serene pleasure and security to my work;
but that serenity did not last long. What

^ I had seen with Amroth, on that day of
wandering, filled me with a strange rest-
lessness, and a yearning for I knew not

? what. I plunged into my studies with de-

' termination rather than ardour, and I set
myself to study what is the most difficult
problem of all — the exact limits of indi-
vidual responsibility. I had many conver-
sations on the point with one of my
teachers, a young man of very wide experi-
ence, who combined in an unusual way a
close scientific knowledge of the subject
with a peculiar emotional sympathy. He
told me once that it was the best outfit for
the scientific study of these problems, when
the heart anticipated the slower judgment

1 8 273

274 The Child of the Dawn

of the mind, and set the mind a goal, so to
speak, to work up to ; though he warned me
that the danger was that the mind was
often reluctant to abandon the more indul-
gent claims of the heart; and he advised
me to mistrust alike scientific conclusions i
and emotional inferences.

I had a very memorable conversation
with him on tlie particular question of re-
sponsibility, which I will here give.

" The mistake," I said to him, " of hu-
man moralists seems to me to be, that they
treat all men as more or less equal in the
matter of moral responsibility. How often/'
I addeil, " have I heard a school preacher
tell boys that they could not all be athletic
or clever or popular, but that high principle
and moral courage were things within the
reach of all. Whereas the more that I
studied human nature, the more did the
power of surveying and judging one's own
moral progress, and the power of enforc-
ing and executing the dictates of the con-
science, seem to me faculties, like other

The Child of the Dawn 275

: faculties. Indeed^ it appears to me," I said,
r ^^ that on the one hand there are people
I who have a power of moral discrimination,
when dealing with the retrospect of their
actions, but no power of obeying the claims
of principle, when confronted with a situa-
tion involving moral strain; while on the
other hand there seem to me to be some few
m€fn with a great and resolute power of
will, capable of swift decision and firm
action, but without any instinct for moral-
ity at all."

"Yes," he said, "you are quite right.
The moral sense is in reality a high artistic
sense. It is a power of discerning and be-
ing attracted by the beauty of moral action,
just as the artist is attracted by form and
colour, and the musician by delicate com-
binations of harmonies and the exquisite
balance of sound. You know," he said,
" what a suspension is in music — it is a
chord which in itself is a discord, but which
depends for its beauty on some impending
resolution. It is just so with moral choice.

276 The Child of the Dawn

The imagination plays a great part in it
The man whose morality is high and pro-
found sees instinctively the approachiDg
contingency, and his act of self-denial or
self-forgetfulness depends for its force upon
the way m which it will ultimately combine
with otlier issues involved, even though at
the moment that act may seem to be un-
necessary and even perverse/^

" But," I said, " there are a good maay \
people who attain to a sensible, well-bal-
anced kind of temperance, after perhaps a
few failures, from a purely prudential
motive. What is the worth of that? ^'

" Very small indeed," said my teacher.
" In fact, the prudential morality, based on
motives of healtli and reputation and suc-
cess, is a thing that has often to be delib-
erately unlearnt at a later stage. The
strange catastrophes which one sees so often
in human life, where a man by one act of
rashness, or moral folly, upsets the tran-
quil tenor of his life — a desperate love-
affair, a passion of unreasonable anger, a

The Child of the Dawn 277

piece of quixotic generosity — are often a
symptom of a great efifort of the soul to
free itself from prudential considerations.
A good thing done for a low motive has
often a singularly degrading and deforming
influence on the soul. One has to remem-
ber how terribly the heavenly values are
obscured upon earth by the body, its needs
and its desires; and current morality of a
cautious and sensible kind is often worse
than worthless, because it produces a kind
of self-satisfaction, which is the hardest
thing to overcome."

" But,'' I said, " in the lives of some of
the greatest moralists, one so often sees,
or at all events hears it said, that their
morality is useless because it is unprac-
tical, too much out of the reach of the
ordinary man, too contemptuous of simple
human faculties. What is one to make of
that? "

" It is a diflftcult matter," he replied ;
" one does indeed, in the lives of great
moralists, see sometimes that their work

278 The Child of the Dawn

is vitiated by perverse and fantastic prefer
enceSy which they exalt out of all proportion
to their real value. But for all that, it is
better to be on the side of the saints; for
they are gifted with the sort of instinctive
appreciation of the beauty of high morality
of which I spoke. Unselfishness, purity,
peaccfulness seem to them so beautiful and
desirable that they are constrained to pra^
tise them. While controversy, bitterness,
cruelty, meanness, vice, seem so utterly
ugly and repulsive that they cannot for aB
instant entertain even so much as a thought
of them.'-'

^^ But if a man sees that he is wanting in
this kind of perception," I said, " what can
he do? How is he to learn to love what
he does not admire and to abhor what he
does not hate? It all seems so fatalistic,
so irresistible.'^

'^ If he discerns his lack," said my teacher
with a smile, "he is probably not so very
far from the truth. The germ of the sense .
of moral beauty is there, and it only wants ]

(

The Child of the Dawn 279

patience and endeavour to make it grow.
But it cannot be all done in any single life,
of course; that is where the human faith
fails, in its limitations of a man's possibil-
ities to a single life."

" But what is the reason/' I said, " why
the morality, the high austerity of some
persons, who are indubitably high-minded
and pure-hearted, is so utterly discourag-
ing and even repellent? "

" Ah," he said, " there you touch on a
great truth. The reason of that is that
these have but a sterile sort of connoisseur-
ship in virtue. Virtue cannot be attained
in solitude, nor can it be made a matter
of private enjoyment. The point is, of
course, that it is not enough for a man to
be himself; he must also give himself; and
if a man is moral because of the delicate
pleasure it brings him — and the artistic
pleasure of asceticism is a very high one
— he is apt to find himself here in very
strange and distasteful company. In this,
as in everything, the only safe motive is

28o The Child of the Dawn

the motive of love. The man who takes
pleasure in using influence, or setting a
lofty example, is just as arid a dilettante
as the musician who plays, or the artist
who paints, for the sake of the applause and
the admiration he wins; he is only regard-
ing others as so many instrnments for
registering his own level of complacency.
Every one, even the least complicated of
mankind, must know the exquisite pleasure
that comes from doing the simplest and
humblest service to one whom he loves;
how such love converts the most menial
office into a luxurious joy; and the higher
that a man goes, the more does he discern
in every single human being with whom he
is brought into contact a soul whom he
can love and serve. Of course it is but an
elementary pleasure to enjoy pleasing those
whom we regard with some passion of
affection, wife or child or friend, because,
after all, one gains something oneself by
that. But the purest morality of all dis-
cerns the infinitely lovable quality which

The Child of the Dawn 281

is in the depth of every human soul, and
lavishes its tenderness and its grace upon
it, with a compassion that grows and in-
creases, the more unthankful and clumsy
and brutish is the soul which it sets out
to serve."

" But/' I said, " beautiful as that thought
is — and I see and recognise its beauty — it
does limit the individual responsibility very
greatly. Surely a prudential morality, the
morality which is just because it fears
reprisal, and is kind because it anticipates
kindness, is better than none at all? The
morality of which you speak can only be-
long to the noblest human creatures."

" Only to the noblest," he said ; " and I
must repeat what I said before, that the
prudential morality is useless, because it
begins at the wrong end, and is set upon
self throughout. I must say deliberately
that the soul which loves unreasonably and
unwisely, which even yields itself to the
passion of others for the pleasure it gives
rather than for the pleasure it receives —

282 The Child of the Dawn

the thriftless, lavish, good-natured, affec-
tionate people, who are said to make such
a mess of their lives — are far higher in the
scale of liope than the cautiously respect-
able, tlie prudently kind, the selfishly pure.
Tliere must be no mistake about this^ One
must somehow or other give one's heart
away, and it is better to do it in error and
disaster tlian to treasure it for oneself. Of
course there are many lives on earth — and
an increasing number as the world develops
— which are generous and noble and un-
selfish, without any sacrifice of purity or
self-respect. But the essence of morality
is giving, and not receiving, or even prac-
tising; the jwint is free choice, and not
compulsion ; and if one cannot give because
one loves, one must give until one loves."

XXVI

But all my speculations were cut short by
a strange event which happened about this
time. One day, without any warning, the
thought of Cynthia darted urgently and ir-
resistibly into my mind. Her image came
between me and all my tasks ; I saw her in
innumerable positions and guises, but al-
ways with her eyes bent on me in a pitiful
entreaty. After endeavouring to resist the
thought for a little as some kind of fantasy,
I became suddenly convinced that she was
in need of me, and in urgent need. I asked
for an interview with our Master, and told
him the story ; he heard me gravely, and then
said that I might go in search of her; but
I was not sure that he was wholly pleased,
and he bent his eyes upon me with a very
inquiring look. I hesitated whether or not

to call Amroth to my aid, but decided that

283

284 The Child of the Dawn

I had better not do so at first. The qnes-
tion was how to find her; the great crags
lay between me and the land of delight;
and when I hurried out of the college, the
thought of the descent and its dangers
fairly unmanned me. I knew, however, of
no other way. But what was my surprise
when, on arriving at the top, not far from
the point where Amroth had greeted me
after the ascent, I saw a little steep iMith,
which wound itself down into the gulleys
and chimneys of the black rocks. I took it
without hesitation, and though again and
again it seemed to come to an end in front
of me, I found that it could be traced and
followed without serious difficulty. The
descent was accomplished with a singular
rapidity, and I marvelled to find myself at
the crag-base in so brief a time, considering
the intolerable tedium of the ascent. I
rapidly crossed the intervening valley, and
was very soon at the gate of the careless
land. To my intense joy, and not at all
to my surprise, I found Cynthia at the gate

The Child of the Dawn 2S5

itself, waiting for me with a look of expect-
ancy. She came forwards, and threw her-
self passionately into my arms, murmuring
words of delight and welcome, like a child.

" I knew you would come," she said. " I
am frightened — all sorts of dreadful things
Lave happened. I have found out where
I am — and I seem to have lost all my
friends. Charmides is gone, and Lucius is
cruel to me — he tells me that I have lost
my spirits and my good looks, and am tire-
some company.'^

I looked at her — she was paler and
frailer-looking than when I left her; and
she was habited very differently, in simpler
and graver dress. But she was to my eyes
infinitely more beautiful and dearer, and
I told her so. She smiled at that, but half
tearfully; and we seated ourselves on a
bench hard by, looking over the garden,
which was strangely and luxuriantly
beautiful.

" You must take me away with you at
once," she said. " I cannot live here without

286 The Child of the Dawn

you. I thought at first, when you went, that it
was rather a relief not to have your grave
face at my shoulder,'* — here she took my
face in her hands — ^^ always reminding me
of something I did not want, and ought to
have wanted — ^but oh, how I began to miss
you! and then I got so tired of this silly,
lazy place, and all the music and jokes and
compliments. But I am a worthless crea-
ture, and not good for anything. I cannot
work, and I hate being idle. Take me any-
where, make me do something, beat me if
you like, only force me to be different from
what I am.''

" Very well," I said. " I will give you
a good beating presently, of course, but just
let me consider what will hurt you most,
silly child ! "

"That is it," she said. "I want to be
hurt and bruised, and shaken as my nurse
used to shake me, when I was a naughty
child. Oh dear, oh dear, how wretched I
am!" and poor Cynthia laid her head on
my shoulder and burst into tears.

The Child of the Dawn 287

" Come, come," I said, " you must not do
that — I want my wits about me; but if you
cry, you will simply make a fool of me —
and this is no time for love-making."

" Then you do really care/^ said Cynthia
in a quieter tone. " That is all I want to
know! I want to be with you, and see
you every hour and every minute. I can't
help saying it, though it is really very un-
dignified for me to be making love to you.
I did many silly things on earth, but never
anything quite so feeble as that!"

I felt myself fairly bewildered by the
situation. My psychology did not seem to
help me; and here at least was something
to love and rescue. I will say frankly that,
in my stupidity and superiority, 1 did not
really think of loving Cynthia in the way
in which she needed to be loved. She was
to me, with all my grave concerns and pro-
blems, as a charming and intelligent child,
with whom I could not even speak of half
the thoughts which absorbed me. So I just
held her in my arms, and comforted her as

288 The Child of the Dawn

best I could; but what to do and whereto
bestow her I could not tell. I saw that
her time to leave the place of desire
come, but what she could turn to I could
not conceive.

Suddenly I looked up, and saw Lucius
approaching, evidently in a very angry
mood.

" So this is the end of all onr amuse-
ment?'' he said, as he came near. "Yon
bring Cynthia here in your tiresome, con-
descending way, you live among us like an
almighty prig, smiling gravely at our fun,
and then you go oflE when it is convenient
to yourself; and then, when you want a
little recreation, you come and sit here in
a corner and hug your darling, when you
have never given her a thought of lata You
know that is true," he added menacingly.

"Yes," I said, "it is true! I went of
my own will, and I have come back of
my own will; and you have all been out
of my thoughts, because I have had much
work to do. But what of that? Cynthia

3fe The Child of the Dawn 289

eants me and I have come back to her,

f ^d I will do whatever she desires. It is

j^no good threatening me, Lucius — there is

nothing you can do or say that will have

the smallest effect on me."

" We will see about that/' said Lucius.
" None of your airs here ! We are peace-
ful enough when we are respectfully and
fairly treated, but we have our own laws,
and no one shall break them with impunity.
We will have no half-hearted fools here.
If you come among us with your damned
missionary airs, you shall have what I ex-
pect you call the crown of martyrdom."

He whistled loud and shrill. Half-a-
dozen men sprang from the bushes and
flung themselves upon me. I struggled, but
was overpowered, and dragged away. The
last sight I had was of Lucius standing
with a disdainful smile, with Cynthia cling-
ing to his arm ; and to my horror and disgust

she was smiling too.

19

XXVII

I HAD somehow never expected to be
witli positive violence in the world of
spirits, and least of all in that lazy and
good-natured place. Considering, too, the
errand on which I had come, not for mj
own convenience but for the sake of an-
other, my treatment seemed to me very
hard. What was still more hnmiliating
was the fact that my spirit seemed just as
powerless in the hands of these ruffians as
my body w^ould have been on earth. I was
pushed, hustled, insulted, hurt I could
have summoned Amroth to my aid, but 1
felt too proud for that; yet the thought of
the crag-men, and the possibility of the
second death, did visit my mind with dis-
mal iteration. I did not at all desire a

further death; I felt very much alive, and

290

The Child of the Dawn 291

full of interest and energy. Worst of all
was my sense that Cynthia had gone over
to the enemy. I had been so loftily kind
with her, that I much resented having ap-
peared in her sight as feeble and ridiculous.
It is difficult to preserve any dignity of
demeanour or thought, with a man's hand
at one's neck and his knee in one's back:
and I felt that Lucius had displayed a
really Satanical malignity in using this
particular means of degrading me in Cyn-
thia's sight, and of regaining his own lost
influence.

I was thrust and driven before my cap-
tors along an alley in the garden, and what
added to my discomfiture was that a good
many people ran together to see us pass,
and watched me with decided amusement. T
was taken finally to a little pavilion of stone,
with heavily barred windows, and a flagged
marble floor. The room was absolutely
bare, and contained neither seat nor table.
Into this I was thrust, with some obscene
jesting, and the door was locked upon me.

292 The Child of the Dawn

The time passed very heavily. At inter-
vals I heard music burst out among the
alleys, and a good many people came to
peep in upon me with an amused curiosity.
I was entirely bewildered by my position,
and did not see what I could have done
to have incurred my punishment. But in
the solitary hours that followed I began
to have a suspicion of my fault. I had
found myself hitherto the object of so much
attention and praise, that I had developed
a strong sense of complacency and self-
satisfaction. I had an uncomfortable sus-
picion that there was even more behind,
but I could not, by interrogating my mind
and searching out my spirits, make out
clearly what it was; yet I felt I was
having a sharp lesson; and this made me
resolve that I would ask for no kind of
assistance from Amroth or any other power,
but that I would try to meet whatever fell
upon me with patience, and extract the full
savour of my experience,

I do not know how long I spent in the

The Child of the Dawn 293

dismal cell. I was in some discomfort from
the handling I had received, and in still
greater dejection of mind. Suddenly I
heard footsteps approaching. Three of my
captors appeared, and told me roughly to
go with them. So, a pitiable figure, I
limped along between two of them, the
third following behind, and was conducted
through the central piazza of the place, be-
tween two lines of people who gave way
to the most undisguised merriment, and
even shouted opprobrious remarks at me,
calling me spy and traitor and other un-
pleasant names. I could not have believed
that these kind-mannered and courteous
persons could have exhibited, all of a sud-
den, such frank brutality, and I saw many
of my own acquaintance among them, who
regarded me with obvious derision,

I was taken into a big hall, in which
I had often sat to hear a concert of music.
On the dais at the upper end were seated
a number of dignified persons, in a semi-
circle, with a very handsome and stately

294 The Child of the Dawn

old man in the centre on a chair of state,
whose face was new to me. Before this
Court I was formally arraigned; I had to
stand alone in the middle of the floor, m
an open space. Two of my captors stood
on each side of me; while the rest of the
court was densely packed with people, who
greeted me with obvious hostility.

When silence was procured, the Presi-
dent said to me, with a show of great
courtesy, that he could not disgnise from
himself that the charge against me was a
serious one ; but that justice would be done
to me, fully and carefully. I shonld have
ample opportunity to excuse myself. He
then called upon one of those who sat with
him to state the case briefly, and call wit-
nesses ; and after that he promised I might
speak for myself.

A man rose from one of the seats, and,
pleading somewhat rhetorically, said that
the object of tlie great community, to which
so many were proud to belong, was to se-
cure to all the utmost amount of innocent

I

i

The Child of the Dawn 295

enjoyment, and the most entire peace of
mind; that no pressure was put upon any
one who decided to stay there, and to ob-
serve the quiet customs of the place; but
that it was always considered a heinous
and ill-disposed thing to attempt to unsettle
any one's convictions, or to attempt, by
using undue influence, to bring about the
migration of any citizen to conditions of
which little was known, but which there
was reason to believe were distinctly un-
desirable.

" We are, above all," he said, " a religious
community; our rites and our ceremonies
are privileges open to all; we compel no
one to attend them; all that we insist is
that no one, by restless innovation or
cynical contempt, should attempt to dis-
turb tlie emotions of serene contemplation,
distinguished courtesy, and artistic feeling,
for which our society has been so long and
justly celebrated."

This was received with loud applause, in-
dulgently checked by the President. Some

I

296 The Child of the Dawn

witnesses were then called, who testified to
the indifference and restlessness which I
had on many occasions manifested. It was
brought up against me that I had provoked
a much-respected member of the community,
Charmides, to utter some very treasonous
and unpleasant language, and that it was
believed that tlie rash and unhappy step,
wliicli he had lately taken, of leaving the
place, had been entirely or mainly the
result of my discontented and ill-advised
suggestion.

Then Lucius himself, wearing an air of
extreme gravity and even despondency, was
called, and a murmur of sympathy ran
through tlie audience. Lucius, apparently
struggling with deep emotion, said that he
bore me no actual ill-will; that on my first
arrival he liad done his best to welcome
me and make me feel at home; that it was
probably known to all that I had been ac-
companied by an accomplished and justly
popular lady, whom I had openly treated
witli scanty civility and undisguised con-

The Child of the Dawn 297

tempt. That he had himself, under the laws
of the place, contracted a close alliance with
my unhappy prot6g6e, and that their union
had been duly accredited; but that I had
lost no opportunity of attempting to under-
mine his happiness, and to maintain an un-
wholesome influence over her. That I had
at last left the place myself, with a most
uncivil abruptness; during the interval of
absence my occupations were believed to
have been of the most dubious character:
it was more than suspected, indeed, that I
had penetrated to places, the very name of
which could hardly be mentioned without
shame and consternation. That my asso-
ciates had been persons of the vilest char-
acter and the most brutal antecedents; and
at last, feeling in need of distraction, I had
again returned with the deliberate intention
of seducing his unhappy partner into ac-
companying me to one or other of the
abandoned places I had visited. He added
that Cynthia had been so much overcome
by her emotion, and her natural compas-

298 The Child of the Dawn

sioD for an old acquaintance^ that he had
persuaded her not to subject herself to th»
painful strain of an appearance in public;
but that for this action he threw himself
upon the mercy of the Court, who would
know that it was only dictated by chiyal-
rous motives.

At this there was subdued applause, and
Lucius, after adding a few broken words I
to the effect that he lived only for the main-
tenance of order, peace, and happiness, and
that he was devoted heart and soul to the
best interests of the community, completely
broke down, and was assisted from his place I
by friends.

The w^hole thing was so malignant and
ingenious a travesty of what had hap-
pened, that I was entirely at a loss to
know what to say. The President, how-
ever, courteously intimated that though the
ease appeared to present a good many very
unsatisfactory features, yet I was entirely
at liberty to justify myself if I could, and,
if not, to make submission ; and added that

The Child of the Dawn 299

I should be dealt with as leniently as
possible.

I summoned up my courage as well as
I might. I began by saying that I claimed
no more than the liberty of thought and
action which I knew the Court desired to
concede. I said that my arrival at the
place was mysterious even to myself, and
that I had simply acted under orders in
accompanying Cynthia, and in seeing that
she was securely bestowed. I said that I
had never incited any rebellion, or any dis-
obedience to laws of the scope of which
I had never been informed. That I had
indeed frankly discussed matters of general
interest with any citizen who seemed to
desire it; that I had been always treated
with marked consideration and courtesy;
and that, as far as I was aware, I had al-
ways followed the same policy myself. I
said that I was sincerely attached to Cyn-
thia, but added that, with all due respect,
I could no longer consider myself a member
of the community. I had transferred my-

300 The Child of the Dawn

self elsewliere under direct ordera, with mj
own entire concurrence, and that I had
since acted in accordance with the customs
and regulations of the commtmity to which
I liad been allotted. I went on to say that
I had returned under the impression that
my presence was desired by Cynthia, and
that I must protest with all my power
against the treatment I had received. I |
had been arrested and imprisoned with
much violence and contumely, without hav-
ing had any opportunity of hearing what
my offence was supposed to have been, or
having had any semblance of a trial, and
that I could not consider that my usage
had been consistent with the theory of
courtesy, order, or justice so eloquently
described by the President.

This onslaught of mine produced an ob-
vious revulsion in my favonr. The Presi-
dent conferred hastily with his colleagues,
and then said that my arrest had indeed
been made upon the information of Lucius,
and with the cognisance of the Court; but

The Child of the Dawn 301

that lie sincerely regretted that I had any
complaint of unhandsome usage to make,
and that the matter would be certainly in-
quired into. He then added that he under-
stood from my words that I desired to make
a complete submission, and that in that case
I should be acquitted of any eyil intentions.
My fault appeared to be that I had yielded
too easily to the promptings of an ill-
balanced and speculative disposition, and
that if I would undertake to disturb no
longer the peace of the place, and to desist
from all further tampering with the domes-
tic happiness of a much-respected pair, I
should be discharged with a caution, and
indeed be admitted again to the privileges
of orderly residence.

" And I will undertake to say," he added,
*^ that the kindness and courtesy of our
community will overlook your fault, and
make no further reference'to a course of con-
duct which appears to have been misguided
rather than deliberately malevolent. We
have every desire not to disturb in any

302 The Child of the Dawn

way the tranquillity which it is, above
all things, our desire to maintaiq. May
I conclude, then, that this is your in-
tention?''

" No, sir," I said, " certainly not ! With
all due respect to the Court, I cannot sub-
mit to the jurisdiction. The only privilege
I claim is the privilege of an alien and a
stranger, who in a perfectly peaceful man-
ner, and with no seditious intent, has re-
entered this land, and has thereupon been
treated with gross and unjust violence. I
do not for a moment contest the right of
this community to make its own laws and
r(\i]:ulations, but I do contest its right to
fetter the thought and the liberty of speech
of all who enter it. I make no submission.
The Lady Cynthia came here under my pro-
tection, and if any undue influence has been
used, it has been used by Lucius, whom I
treated with a confidence he has abused.
x\nd I here appeal to a higher power and
a higher court, which may indeed permit
this unhappy community to make its own

i

1

The Child of the Dawn 303

regulations, but will not permit any gross
violation of elementary justice."

I was carried away by great indignation
in the course of my words, which had a
yery startling effect. A large number of the
audience left the hall in haste. The judge
grew white to the lips, whether with anger
or fear I did not know, said a few words to
his neighbour, and then with a great effort
to control himself, said to me:

" You put us, sir, by your words, in a
very painful position. You do not know
the conditions under which we live — that
is evident — and intemperate language like
yours has before now provoked an invasion
of our peace of a most undesirable kind. I
entreat you to calm yourself, to accept the
apologies of the Court for the incidental
and indeed unjustifiable violence with whicli
you were treated. If you will only return
to your own community, the nature of which
I will not now stay to inquire, you may be
assured that you will be conducted to our
gates with the utmost honour. Will you

304 The Child of the Dawn

I

pledge yourself as a gentleman, and, as I
believe I am right in saying, as a ChristiaD,
to do this? "

" Yes/' I said, " upon one condition: that
I may have an interview with the Lady
Cynthia, and that she may be free to accom-
pany me, if she wishes."

The President was about to reply, when
a sudden and unlooked-for interruption oc-
curred. A man in a pearly-grey dress, with
a cloak clasped with gold, came in at the
end of the hall, and advanced with rapid
steps and a curiously unconcerned air up
the hall. The judges rose in their places
with a hurried and disconcerted look. The
stranger came up to me, tapped me on the
shoulder, and bade me presently follow him.
Then he turned to the President, and said
in a clear, peremptory voice:

" Dissolve the Court! Your powers have
been grossly and insolently exceeded. See
that nothing of this sort occurs again! " and
then, ascending the dais, he struck the Presi-
dent with his open hand hard upon the cheek.

The Child of the Dawn 305

The President gave a stifled cry and
staggered in his place, and then, covering
his face with his hands, went out at a door
on the platform, followed by the rest of the
Council in haste. Then the man came
down again, and motioned me to follow
him. I was not prepared for what hap-
pened. Outside in the square was a great,
pale, silent crowd, in the most obvious and
dreadful excitement and consternation. We
went rapidly, in absolute stillness, through
two lines of people, who watched us with
an emotion I could not quite interpret, but
it was something very like hatred.

" Follow me quickly," said my guide ; " do
not look round ! " and, as we went, I heard
the crowd closing up in a menacing way
behind us. But we walked straight for-
ward, neither slowly nor hurriedly but at
a deliberate pace, to the gateway which
opened on the cliffs. At this point I saw
a confusion in the crowd, as though some
one were being kept back, and in the fore-
front of the throng, gesticulating and argu-

3o6 The Child of the Dawn

ing, was Lucius himself, with his hack to
us. Just as we reached the gate I heard a
cry; and from the crowd there ran Cynthia,
with her hair unbound, in terror and faint
ness. Our guide opened the gate, and mo-
tioned us swiftly tlirough, turning round to
face the crowd, which now ran in npon us.
I saw him wave his arm; and then he came
quickly through the gate and closed it. He
looked at us with a smile. "Don^t be
afraid," he said; "that was a dangerous
business. But they cannot touch us here."
As he said the word, there burst from the
gardens behind us a storm of the most
liideous and horrible cries I had ever heard,
like the howling of wild beasts. Cynthia
clung to me in terror, and nearly swooned
in my arms. " Never mind," said the
guide; "they are disappointed, and no
wonder. It was a near thing; but, poor
creatures, they have no initiative; their life
is not a fortifying one; and besides, they
will have forgotten all about it to-morrow.
But wo had better not stop here. There is

The Child of the Dawn 307

no use in facing disagreeable things, unless
one is obliged." And he led the way down
the valley.

ft/

When we had got a little farther oflf, our
guide told us to sit down and rest. Cyn-
thia was still yery much frightened, speech-
less with excitement and agitation, and, like
all impulsiye people, regretting her decision.
I saw that it was useless to say anything to
her at present. She sat wearily enough, her
eyes closed, and her hands clasped. Our guide
looked at me with a half-smile, and said :

" That was rather an unpleasant busi-
ness! It is astonishing how excited those
placid and polite people can get if they
think their privileges are being threatened.
But really that Court was rather too much.
They have tried it before with some suc-
cess, and it is a clever trick. But they have
had a lesson to-day, and it will not need
to be repeated for a while."

" You arrived just at the right moment,"
I said, "and I really cannot express how
grateful I am to you for your help."

3o8 The Child of the Dawn

" Oh," he said, " you were quite safe. It
was just til at touch of temper that saved
you; but I was hard by all the time, to
see that things did not go too far."

" May I ask," I said, " exactly what they
oould have done to me, and what their real
power is? "

" They have none at all," he said. " They
could not really have done anything to you,
except imprison you. What helps them is
not their own power, which is nothing,
but the terror of their yictima If you
had not been frightened when you were
first attacked, they could not have over-
powered you. It is all a kind of play-
acting, which they perform with remarkable
skill. The Court was really an admirable
piece of drama — they have a great gift for
representation."

" Do you mean to say," I said, " that they
were actually aware that they had no sort
of power to inflict any injury upon me? "

" They could have made it very disagree-
able for you," he said, " if they had fright-

The Child of the Dawn 309

ened you, and kept you frightened. As long
as that lasted, you would have been ex-
tremely uncomfortable. But as you saw,
the moment you defied them they were
helpless. The part played by Lucius was
really unpardonable. I am afraid he is a
great rascal.''

Cynthia faintly demurred to this. " Never
mind," said the guide soothingly, "he has
only shown you his good side, of course;
and I don't deny that he is a very clever
and attractive fellow. But he makes no
progress, and I am really afraid that he
will have to be transferred elsewhere;
though there is indeed one hope for him."

" Tell me what that is," said Cynthia
faintly.

" I don't think I need do that," said our
friend, " you know better than I ; and some
day, I think, when you are stronger, you
will find the way to release him."

" Ah, you don't know him as I do," said
Cynthia, and relapsed into silence; but did
not withdraw her hand from mine.

310 The Child of the Dawn

" Well/' said our guide after a moment's
pause, ^' I think I have done all I can for
the time being, and I am wanted elsewhere."

" But will you not advise me what to do
next?" I said. "I do not see my way
clear/'

" No," said the guide rather drily, " I am
afraid I cannot do that. That lies outside
mj^ province. These delicate questions are
not in my line. I will tell you plainly what
I am. I am just a messenger, i)erhaps more
like a policeman," he added, smiling, " than
anything else. I just go and appear when
I am wanted, if there is a row or a chance
of one. Don't misunderstand me I " he said
more kindly. " It is not from any lack of
interest in you or our friend here. I should
very much like to know what step you will
take, but it is simply not my business:
our duties here are very clearly defined,
and I can just do my job, and nothing
more."

lie made a courteous salute, and walked
oflE without looking back, leaving on me the

The Child of the Dawn 311

impression of a young military officer, per-
fectly courteous and reliable, not inclined
to cultivate his emotions or to waste words,
but absolutely efiEective, courageous, and
dutiful.

" Well," I said to Cynthia with a show
of cheerfulness, "what shall we do next?
Are you feeling strong enough to go on? "

" I am sure I don't know," said Cynthia
wearily. " Don't ask me. I have had a
great fright, and I begin to wish I had
stayed behind. How uncomfortable every-
thing is! Why can one never have a mo-
ment's peace? There," she said to me,
'^ don't be vexed, I am not blaming you;
but I hated you for not showing more fight
when those men set on you, and I hated
Lucius for having done it ; you must forgive
me! I am sure you only did what was
kind and right — but I have had a very try-
ing time, and I don't like these bothers.
Let me alone for a little, and I daresay I
shall be more sensible."

I sat by her in much perplexity, feeling

312 The Child of the Dawn

singularly helpless and ineffective ; and in
a moment of weakness, not knowing what
to do, I wished that Amroth were near me,
to advise me; and to my relief saw him
approaching, but also realised in a flash
that I had acted wrongly, and that he was
angry, as I had never seen him before.

He came up to us, and bending down to
Cyntliia with great tenderness, took her
hand, and said, " Will you stay here quietly
a little, Cynthia, and rest? You are per-
fectly safe now, and no one will come near
you. We two shall be close at hand; but
we must have a talk together, and see what
can be done."

Cynthia smiled and released me. Am-
roth beckoned me to withdraw with him.
When we had got out of earshot, he turned
upon me very fiercely, and said, " You have
made a great mess of this business."

" I know it," I said feebly, " but I can-
not for the life of me see where I was
wrong.-'

" You were wrong from beginning to

The Child of the Dawn 313

I end," he said. " Cannot you see that, what-
ever this place is, it is not a sentimental

ij place? It is all this wretched sentiment

J that has done the mischief. Come," he
added, " I have an unpleasant task before
me, to unmask you to yourself. I don't

I like it, but I must do it. Don't make it

, harder for me."

" Very good," I said, rather angrily too.
" But allow me to say this first. This is
a place of muddle. One is worked too hard,
and shown too many things, till one is hope-
lessly confused. But I had rather have
your criticism first, and then I will make
mine."

" Very well ! " said Amroth facing me,
looking at me fixedly with his blue eyes,
and his nostrils a little distended. " The
mischief lies in your temperament. You
are precocious, and you are volatile. You
liave had special opportunities, and in a
way you have used them well, but your
head has been somewhat turned by your
successes. You came to that place yonder.

314 The Child of the Dawn

with Cynthia, with a sense of superiority. "
You thought yourself too good for it, and
instead of just trying to see into the minds
and hearts of tlie people you met, you de
spised them ; instead of learning, you tried
to teach. You took a feeble interest in Cyn-
thia, made a pet of her ; then, when I took
you away, you forgot all about her. Even
the great things I was allowed to show you
did not make you humble. You took them
as a compliment to your powers. And so
when you had your chance to go back to
help Cynthia, you thought out no plan, yon
asked no advice. You went down in a very
self-sullicient mood, expecting that every-
tiling would be easy."

" That is not true," I said. " I was very
much perplexed."

" It is only too true," said Amroth; "you
enjoyed yonr perplexity; I daresay you
called it faith to yourself I It was that
which made you weak. You lost your
temper witli Lucius, you made a miserable
figlit of it — and even in prison you could

fe The Child of the Dawn 315

)fiot recognise that you were in fault. You

id better at the trial — I fully admit that

)u behaved well there — but the fault is

this, that this girl gave you her heart

nd her confidence, and you despised them.

our mind was taken up with other things;

very little more, and you would be fit for

jhe intellectual paradise. There," he said,

j' I have nearly done ! You may be angry

^.f you will, but that is the truth. You have

a wrong idea of this place. It is not plain

sailing here. Life here is a very serious,

very intricate, very difficult business. The

only complications which are removed are

the complications of the body; but one has

ixious and trying responsibilities all the

same, and you have trifled with them. You

must not delude yourself. You have many

good qualities. You have some courage,

much ingenuity, keen interests, and a good

deal of conscientiousness; but you have the

makings of a dilettante, the readiness to

delude yourself that the particular little

work you are engaged in is excessively and

3i6 The Child of the Dawn

peculiarly important. You have got tl
proportion all wrong.^'

I had a feeling of intense anger and bi
lemess at all this; but as he spoke,
scales seemed to fall from my eyes, and
saw that Amroth was right. I wrestl*
with myself in silence.

Presently I said, "Amroth, I believe y
are right, though I think at this mome
that you have stated all this rather harsh
But I do see that it can be no pleasure
you to state it, though I fear I shall ne^
regain my pleasure in your company."

" There," said Amroth, " that is ser
ment again I "

This put me into a great passion.

" Very well," I said, " I will say no mo
Perhaps you will just be good enough
tell me what I am to do with Cynthia, a
where I am to go, and then I will trou
you no longer."

" Oh," said Amroth with a sneer, " I hi
no doubt you can find some very nice se
detached villas hereabouts. Why not

[^ The Child of the Dawn 317

jjle down, and make the poor girl a little
lore worthy of yourself? "

At this I turned from him in great
4iger, and left him standing where he
v^as. If ever I hated any one, I hated
^.mroth at that moment. I went back to
Cynthia.

" I have come back to you, dear," I said.
^ Can you trust me and go with me? No
me here seems inclined to help us, and we
nust just help each other."

At which Cynthia rose and flung herself
nto my arms.

" That was what I wanted all along," she
(aid, " to feel that I could be of use too.
iTou will see how brave I can be. I can
JO anywhere with you and 'do anything,
)ecause I think I have loved you all the
ime."

"And you must forgive me, Cynthia,"
; said, " as well. For I did not know
:ill this moment that I loved you, but I
mow it now; and I shall love you to the
md."

3i8 The Child of the Dawn

As I said these words I turned, and sa
Amrotli smiling from afar; then with
wave of the hand to us, he turned
passed out of our sight.

XXVIII

Left to ourselves, Cynthia and I sat awhile
in silence, hand in hand, like children, she
looking anxiously at me. Our talk had
broken down all possible reserve between
us; but what was strange to me was that
I felt, not like a lover with any need to
woo, but as though we two had long since
been wedded, and had just come to a know-
ledge of each other's hearts. At last we
rose; and strange and bewildering as it
all was, I think I was perhaps happier at
this time than at any other time in the land
of light, before or after.

And let me here say a word about these
strange unions of soul that take place in
that other land. There is there a whole
range of afiEections, from courteous toler-
ance to intense passion. But there is a
peculiar bond which springs up between

319

320 The Child of the Dawn

pairs of people, not always of different sex,
Id that country. My relation with Amiotk
Iiad nothing of that emotion abont it That
was simply like a transcendental essoice o(
perfect friendship ; bnt there was a peculiar
relation^ between pairs of souls, irUd
seems to imply some cnrions duality of I
nature, of which earthly passion is but a
symbol. It is accompanied by an absolute
clearness of vision into the inmost soul and
being of the other. Cynthia's mind waa
clear to me in those days as a crystal gl ^
might be which one could hold in one'i
hand, and my mind was as clear to ha.
There is a sense accompanying it almost ol
identity, as if the other nature was
exact and perfect complement of one's own, ■
I can explain this best by an image. Think I
of a sphere, let us say, of alabaster, broken
into two pieces by a blow, and one piece
put away or mislaid. The first piece, let
us suppose, stands in its accustomed place,
and the owner often thinks in a trivial waj
of having it restored. One day, turning

The Child of the Dawn 32 1

flfrover some lumber, he finds the other piece,
jiBud wonders if it is not the lost fragment.
jjjHe takes it with him, and sees on applying
jj it that the fractures correspond exactly,
^ and that joined together the pieces com-
j plete the sphere.

Even so did Cynthia's soul fit into mine.
But I grew to understand later the words
^ of the Gospel — " they neither marry nor
•e given in marriage." These unions are
not permanent, any more than they are
f really permanent on earth. On earth, owing
to material considerations such as children
and property, a marriage is looked upon as
indissoluble. But this takes no account of
the development of souls; and indeed many
of the unions of earth, the passion once
over, do grow into a very noble and beauti-
ful friendship. But sometimes, even on
earth, it is the other way ; and passion once
extinct, two natures often realise their dis-
similarities rather than their similarities;
and this is the cause of much unhappiness.
But in the other land, two souls may de-

322 The Child of the Dawn

velop in quite different ways and at a di
ferent pace. And then this relatioB ma
also come quietly and simply to an
without the least resentment or regret, i
is succeeded invariably by a very t
and true friendship, each being sweetly
serenely content with all that has be
given or received; and this friendship
not shaken or fretted, even if both of t
lovers form new ties of close intima(
Some natures form many of these ti
some few, some none at all. I believe thj
as a matter of fact, each nature has
counterpart at all times, but does not
ways succeed in finding it. But the uni(
when it comes, seems to take precedence
all other emotions and all other work,
did not know this at the time; but I h
a sense that my work was for a time ov<
because it seemed quite plain to me tl
as yet Cynthia was not in the least degi
suited to the sort of work which I had be
doing.
We walked on together for some time.

The Child of the Dawn 323

a happy silence, though quiet communica-
tions of a blessed sort passed perpetually
between us without any interchange of
word. Our feet moved along the hillside,
away from the crags, because I felt that
Cynthia had no strength to climb them;
and I wondered what our life would be.

Presently a valley opened before us, fold-
ing quietly in among the hills, full of a
golden haze; and it seemed to me that our
further w ay lay down it. It fell softly and
securely into a further plain, the country
being quite unlike anything I had as yet seen
— a land of high and craggy mountains, the
lower parts of them much overgrown with
woods; the valley itself widened out, and
passed gently among the hills, with here
and there a lake. Dotted all about the
mountain-bases, at the edges of the woods,
were little white houses, stone-walled and
stone- tiled, with small gardens; and then
the place seemed to become strangely fa-
miliar and homelike; and I became aware
that I was coming home : the same thought

324 The Child of the Dawn

occurred to Cynthia ; and at last^ when we -
turned a comer of the road, and saw lying
a little back from the road a small honse, |
with a garden in front of it^ shaded I? a
group of sycamores, we darted forwards
with a cry of delight to the home that was
indeed our o^n. The door stood open
tliough we were certainly expected. It was
tlie simplest little place, just a pair of
rooms very roughly and plainly furnished.
And there we embraced with tears of joy.

?ft

s XXIX

i

I The time that I spent in the valley home

with Cynthia is the most difficult to de-
i scribe of all my wanderings; because, in-
deed, there is nothing to describe. We were
always together. Sometimes we wandered
high up among the woods, and came out on
the bleak mountain-heads. Sometimes we
sat within and talked; and by a curious
provision there were phenomena there that
were more like changes of weather, and in-
terchange of day and night, than at any
other place in the heavenly country. Some-
times the whole valley would be shrouded
with mists, sometimes it would be grey and
overcast, sometimes the light was clear and
radiant, but through it all there beat a
pulse of light and darkness; and I do not
know which was the more desirable — the
hours when we walked in the forests, with

325

326 The Child of the Dawn

the wind moving softly in the leaves oyer
head like a falling sea, or those calm and
silent nights when we seemed to sleep and
dream, or when, if I waked, I could hear
Cynthia's breath coming and going evaily
as the breath of a tired child. It seemed
like the essence of human pasaion, the end
that lovers desire, and discern faintly be-
hind and beyond the accidents of sense and
contact, like the sounding of a sweet chord,
without satiety or fever of the sense.

I learnt many strange and beautifnl
secrets of the human heart in those days:
what the dreams of womanhood are — how
wholly different from the dreams of man,
in which there is always a combative ele-
ment. The soul of Cynthia was like a
silent cleft among the hills, which waits,
in its own still content, until the horn of
the shepherd winds the notes of a chord in
the valley below; and then the cleft makes
answer and returns an airy echo, blending
the notes into a harmony of dulcet utter-
ance. And slie too, I doubt not, learnt some-

The Child of the Dawn 327

thing from my soul, which was eager and
inventive enough, but restless and fugitive
of purpose. And then there came a further
joy to us. That which is fatherly and
motherly in the world below is not a thing
that is lost in heaven; and just as the love
of man and woman can draw down and
imprison a soul in a body of flesh, so in
heaven the dear intention of one soul to
another brings about a yearning, which
grows day by day in intensity, for some
further outlet of love and care.

It was one quiet misty morning that, as
we sat together in tranquil talk, we heard
faltering steps within our garden. We had
seen, let me say, very little of the other
inhabitants of our valley. We had some-
times seen a pair of figures wandering at
a distance, and we had even met neigh-
bours and exchanged a greeting. But the
valley had no social life of its own, and
no one ever seemed, so far as we knew, to
enter any other dwelling, though they met
in quiet friendliness. Cynthia went to the

328 The Child of the Dawn

door and opened it ; then she darted ont,
and, just when I was about to follow, ski r
returned, leading by the hand a tiny cliild,! f'
who looked at us with an air of perfect i £
contentment and simplicity. \ \

"Where on earth has this enchanting
baby sprung from?" said Cynthia, seating
the child upon her lap, and beginning to
talk to it in a strangely unintelligible lan-
guage, whicli the child appeared to under-
stand perfectly.

I laughed. " Out of our two hearts, per-
haps," I said. At which Cynthia blushed,
and said that I did not understand or care
for children. She added that men's only
idea about cliildren was to think how much
they could teach them.

" Yes," I said, " we will begin lessons to-
morrow, and go on to the Latin Grammar
very shortly."

At which Cynthia folded the child in her
arms, to defend it, and reassured it in a
sentence which is far too silly to set down
here.

The Child of the Dawn 329

I think that sometimes on earth the ar-
•ival of a first child is a very trying time
or a wedded pair. The husband is apt to
ind his wife's love almost withdrawn from
lim, and to see her nourishing all kinds of
ealousies and vague ambitions for her
;hild. Paternity is apt to be a very be-
vildered and often rather dramatic emo-
ion. But it was not so with us. The
:hild seemed the very thing we had been
leeding without knowing it. It was a'con-
tant source of interest and delight ; and in
•pite of Cynthia's attempts to keep it ig-
lorant and even fatuous, it did develop a
ery charming intelligence, or rather, as I
oon saw, began to perceive what it already
:new. It soon overwhelmed us with ques-
ions, and used to patter about the garden
i^ith me, airing all sorts of delicious and
bsurd fancies. But, for all that, it did
eem to make an end of the first utter close-
ess of our love. Cynthia after this seldom
i^ent far afield, and I ranged the hills and
roods alone; but it was all absurdly and

330 The Child of the Dawn

continuously happy, though I began to
wonder how long it could last, and whether
my faculties and energies, such as they
were, could continue thus nnused. And I
had, too, in my mind that other scene which
I had beheld, of how the boy was withdrawn
from the two old people in the other valley.
Was it always thus, I wondered? Was it
so, that souls were drawn upwards in
ceaseless pilgrimage, loving and passing on,
and leaving in the hearts of those who
stayed behind a longing unassuaged, which
was presently to draw them onwards from
the peace which they loved perhaps too
well?

XXX

The serene life came all to an end very
suddenly, and with no warning. One day
I had been sitting with Cynthia, and the
child was playing on the floor with some
little things — stones, bits of sticks, nuts —
which it had collected. It was a mysterious
game too, accompanied with much impres-
sive talk and gesticulations, much emphatic
lecturing of recalcitrant pebbles, with in-
terludes of unaccountable laughter. We
had been watching the child, when Cynthia
leaned across to me and said :

" There is something in your mind, dear,
which I cannot quite see into. It has been
there for a long time, and I have not liked
to ask you about it. Won^t you tell me
what it is? ■'

" Yes, of course," I said ; " I will tell you
anything I can."

331

332 The Child of the Dawn

" It has nothing to do with me," said
Cynthia, " nor with the child ; it is about
yourself, I think; and it is not altogether
a liappy thought/*

" It is not unhappy," I said, ** because I
am very happy and very well-content. It
is just this, I think. You know, don't yoa,
how I was being employed, before I came
back, God be praised, to find you? I was
being trained, very carefully and elabo-
rately trained, I won't say to help people,
but to be of use in a way. Well, I have
been wondering why all that was suspended
and cut short, just when I seemed to be
finishing my training. I have been much
happier here than I ever was before, of
course. Indeed I have been so happy that
I have sometimes thought it almost wrong
that any one should have so much to en-
joy. But I am puzzled, because the other
work seems thrown away. If you wonder
whether I want to leave our life here and
go back to the other, of course I do not;
but I liave felt idle, and like a boy turned

I The Child of the Dawn 333

. down from a high class at school to a low

one."

" That is not very complimentary to me ! "
said Cynthia, laughing. " Suppose we say
a boy who has been working too hard for
his health, and has been given a long
holiday? "

" Yes,'- I said, " that is better. It is as
if a clerk was told that he need not attend
his office, but stay at home; and though it
is pleasant enough, he feels as if he ought
to be at his work, that he appreciates his
home all the more when he can't sit reading
the paper all the morning, and that he does
not love his home less, but rather more,
because he is away all the day."

"Yes," said Cynthia, "that is sensible
enough; and I am amazed sometimes that
you can be so good and patient about it
all — ^so content to be so much with me and
baby here; but I don't think it is quite —
what shall I say? — quite healthy either!''

" Well," I said, " I have no wish to
cliange ; and here, I am glad to think, there

334 The Child of the Dawn

is never any doubt about what one is meant
to do."

And so the subject dropped.

How little I thought then that this was
to be the end of the old scene, and that the
curtain was to draw up so suddenly upon
a new one.

But the following morning I had been
wandering contentedly enough in the wood,
watching the shafts of light strike in among
the trees, upon the glittering fronds of the
ferns, and thinking idly of all my strange
experiences. I came home, and to my sur-
prise, as I came to the door, I heard talk
going (m inside. I went hastily in, and
saw that Cynthia was not alone. She
was sitting, looking very grave and serious,
and wonderfully beautiful — her beauty had
grown and increased in a marvellous way
of late. And there were two men, one sit-
ting in a chair near her and regarding her
with a look of love; it was Lucius; and I
saw at a glance that he was strangely
changed. He had the same spirited and

The Child of the Dawn 335

mirthful look as of old, but there was some-
thing there which I had never seen before
— the look of a man who had work of his
own, and had learned something of the per-
plexity and suflfering of responsibility. The
other was Amroth, who was looking at the
two with an air of irrepressible amusement.
When I entered, Lucius rose, and Amroth
said to me:

" Here I am again, you see, and wonder-
ing whether you can regain the pleasure
you once were kind enough to take in my
company? "

"What nonsense!" I said rather shame-
facedly. " How often have I blushed in
secret to think of that awful remark. But
I was rather harried, you must admit."

Amroth came across to me and put his
arm through mine.

" I forgive you," he said, " and I will
admit that I was very provoking; but things
were in a mess, and, besides, it was very
inconvenient for me to be called away at
that moment from my job ! "

336 The Child of the Dawn

But Lucius came up to me and said:

" I have come to apologise to you. Hj
behaviour was hideous and horrible. I
won't make any excuses, and I don't
pose you can ever forget what I did. I
was utterly and entirely in the wrong.''

" Thank you, Lucius,^' I said. " But
please say no more about it. My own be-
haviour on that occasion was infamous too.
And really we need not go back on all that
The whole affair has become quite an agree-
able reminiscence. It is a pleasure, when
it is all over, to have been thoronghly and
wholesomely shown up, and to discover that
one has been a pompous and priggish ass.
And you and Amroth between yon did me
that blessed turn. I am not quite sure
which of you I hated most. But I may
say one thing, and that is that I am heart-
ily glad to see you have left the land of
delight."

" It was a tedious place really," said
Lucius, " but one felt bound in honour to
make the best of it. But indeed after that

;33i The Child of the Dawn 337

'ay it was horrible. And I wearied for a

^^sigllt of Cyntliia! But you seem to have

^jdone very well for yourselves here. May

^I venture to say frankly how well she is

looking, and you too? But I am not going

to interrupt you. I have got my billet, I

am thankful to say. It is not a very ex-

. alted one, but it is better than I deserve;

id I shall try to make up for wasted

time.''

" Hear, hear ! " said Amroth ; " a very
creditable sentiment, to be sure ! "

Lucius smiled and blushed. Then he
said :

" I never was much of a hand at express-
ing myself correctly; but you know what I
mean. Don't take the wind out of my
sails!"

And then Amroth turned to me, and said
suddenly :

" And now I have something else to tell

you, and not wholly good news; so I will

just say it at once, without beating about

the bush. You are to come with us too."
22

338 The Child of the Dawn

rynthia looked up suddenly with a glance
of pale iu([uiry. Amroth took her hand.

"No, dear child/' he said, "you are not
to accompany him. You must stay here
awhile, until the child is grown. But don't
look like that! There is no such thing as
s(*paration here, or anywhere. Don't make
it liarder for us all. It is unpleasant of
course ; but, good heavens, what would be-
come of us all if it were not for that! How
dull we should be without suflEering! "

" Yes, yes," said Cynthia, " I know— and
I will say nothing against it. But — " and
slie burst into tears.

" Come, come," said Amroth cheerfully,
*^ we must not go back to the old days, and
behave as if there were partings and funer-
als. I will give you five minutes alone to
say good-bye. Lucius, we must start," and,
turning to me, he said, " Meet us in five
minutes by the oak-tree in the road."

They went out, Lucius kissing Cynthia's
hand in silence.

Cynthia came up to me and put her arms

t The Child of the Dawn 339

r*ound my neck and her cheek to mine. We
bbed, I fear, like two children.
^* Don't forget me, dearest," she said.
*' My darling, what a word ! " I said.
*' Oh, how happy we have been together ! "
tie said.
^^ Yes, and shall be happier still," I said.
And then with more words and signs of
love, too sacred even to be written down, we
parted. It was over. I looked back once,
and saw my darling gather the child to her
lieart, and look up once more at me. Then
I closed the door; something seemed to
surge up in my heart and overwhelm me;
and then the ring on my finger sent a sharp
pang through my whole frame, which re-
called me to myself. And I say it with
all the strength of my spirit, I saw how
joyful a thing it was to suffer and grieve.
I came down to the oak. The two were
waiting in silence, and Lucius seemed to
be in tears. Amroth put his arm through
mine.

" Come, brother," he said, " that was a

340 The Child of the DawTi

bad business; I won't pretend otherwise;
but those thiTijrs had better come swiftlT."

" Yes," said Lucius, " but it is a cruel
affair, and I can't say otherwise. Why can-
not God leave us alone? "

" Lucius/' said Amroth very gravely,
" here you may say and think as you will |
— and tlie thoughts of the heart are best
uttered. But one must not blaspheme."

*^ No, no," said Lucius, " I was wrong.
I ought not to have spoken so. And indeed
I know in my heart that somehow, far off,
it is well. But I was thinking," he said,
turning to me, and grasping my hand in
both of his owm, "not of you, but of Cyn-
thia. I am glad with all my heart that yon
took her from me, and have made her happy. .
But what miserable creatures we all are; I
and how much more miserable we should
be if Ave were not miserable! ''

And then we started. It was a dreary l
hour that, full of deep and gnawing pain, r
T pictured to myself Cynthia at every mo-
ment, what she w^as doing and thinking;

The Child of the Dawn 341

how swiftly the good days had flown; how
perfectly happy I had been; and so my
wretched silent reverie went on.

" I must say," said Amroth at length,
breaking a dismal silence, " that this is very
tedious. Can't you take some interest? I
have very disagreeable things to do, but
that is no reason why I should be bored as
well ! " And he then set himself to talk
with much zest of all my old friends and
companions, telling me how each was faring.
Charmides, it seemed, had become a very
accomplished architect and designer; Philip
was a teacher at the College. And he went
on until, in spite of my heaviness, I felt
the whole of life beginning to widen and
vibrate all about me, and a sense almost
of shame creeping into my mind that I had
become so oblivious of all the other friend-
ships and relations I had formed. I forced
myself to talk and to ask questions, and
found myself walking more briskly. It was
not very long before we parted with Lucius.
He was left at the doors of a great barrack-

342 The Child of the Dawn

like building, and Amroth told me he was
to be employed as an officer, very much
the same way as the young man who ^
sent to conduct me away from the trial, |
and I felt what a good officer Lacius wouU
make — smart, prompt, polite, and not in
the least sentimental.

So we went on together rather gloomily;
and then Amroth let me look for a little
deep into his heart ; and I saw that it was
tilled with a kind of noble pity for me in
my suffering; but behind the pity lay that
blissful certainty which made Amroth so
light-hearted, that it was just so, through
suffering, that one became wise; and he
could no more think of it as irksome or
sad than a jolly undergraduate thinks of
the training for a race or the rowing in
the race as painful, but takes it all with
a kind of high-hearted zest, and finds even
the nervousness an exciting thing, life lived
at high pressure in a crowded hour.

XXXI

And thus we came ourselves to a new place,
though I took but little note of all we
passed, for my mind was bent inward upon
itself and upon Cynthia. The place was a
great solid stone building, in many courts,
with fine tree-shaded fields all about; a
school, it seemed to me, with boys and girls
going in and out, playing games together.
Amroth told me that children were bestowed
here who had been of naturally fine and
frank dispositions, but who had lived their
life on earth under foul and cramped con-
ditions, by which they had been fretted
rather than tainted. It seemed a very
happy and busy place. Amroth took me
into a great room that seemed a sort of
library or common-room. There was no one
there, and I was glad to sit and rest; when
suddenly the door opened, and a man came

343

344 The Child of the Dawn

in with outstretched hands and a smile of
welcome. I looked up, and it was none
but the oldest and dearest friend of my
last life, who had died before me. He had
been a teacher, a man of the simplest and
most guileless life, whose whole energy and
<lelight was given to teaching and lonng
tlie young. The surprising thing about him
liad always been that he could meet one,
after a long silence or a suspension of in-
tercourse, as simply and easily as if one
had but left him the day before; and it was
just the same here. There was no effusive-
ness of greeting — we just fell at once into
the old familiar talk.

" You are just the same," I said to him,
looking at the burly figure, the big, almost
clumsy, head, and the irradiating smile.
His great charm had always been an entire
unworldliness and absence of ambition.

ITe smiled at this and said:

" Yes, I am afraid I am too easy-going." (
ITe had never cared to talk about himself,
and now he said, " Well, yes, I go along in

The Child of the Dawn 345

my old prosy way. It is just like the old
schooldays, with half the difficulties gone.
Of course the children are not always good,
but that makes it the more amusing; and
one can see much more easily what they
are thinking of and dreaming about."

I found myself telling him my adventures,
which he heard with the same quiet atten-
tion; and I was sure that he would never
forget a single point— he never forgot any-
thing in the old days.

" Yes," he said at the end, " that 's a
wonderful story. You always had the
trouble of the adventures, and I had the
fun of hearing them."

He asked me what I was now going to
do, and I said that I had not the least
idea.

" Oh, that will be all right," he said.

It was all so comfortable and simple, so
obvious indeed, that I laughed to think of
the bitter and miserable reveries I had in-
dulged in when he was taken from me, and
when the stay of my life seemed gone. The

346 The Child of the Dawn

wliole incident seemed to give me back a
touch of the serenity which I had lost, and
I saw how beautifully this joy of meeting
liad been planned for me, when I wanted
it most. Presently he said that he mnst
go off for a lesson, and asked me to come
with him and see the children. We wait
into a big class-room, where some boys and
girls were assembling. Here he was ex-
actly the same as ever; no sentiment, but
just a kind of bluff paternal kindness. The
lesson was most informal — a good deal of
questioning and answering; it was a bio-
graphical lecture, but devoted, I saw, in
a simple way, to tracing the development
of the hero's cliaracter. " What made him
do that? " was a constant question. The
answers were most ingenious and extraor-
dinarily lively; but the order was perfect
At the end he called up two or three child-
ren who liad shown some impatience or
jealousy in the lesson, and said a few half- (
humorous words to them, with an air of
affectionate interest.

The Child of the Dawn 347

" They are jolly little creatures," he said
when they had all gone out.

" Yes/' I said, with a sigh, " I do indeed
envy you. I wish I could be set to some-
thing of the kind."

" Oh, no, you don't," he said ; " this is
too simple for you! You want something
more artistic and more psychological. This
would bore you to extinction."

We walked all round the place, saw
the games going on, and were presently
joined by Amroth, who seemed to be on
terms of old acquaintanceship with my
friend. I was surprised at this, and he
said :

" Why, yes, Amroth had the pleasure of
bringing me here too. Things are done
here in groups, you know; and Amroth
knows all about our lot. It is very well
organised, much better than one perceives
at first. You remember how you and I
drifted to school together, and the set of
boys we found ourselves with — my word,
what young ruflSans some of us were ! Well,

348 The Child of the Dawn

of course all that had been planned, though
we did not know it."

" What ! " said I ; " the evil as weU as the
good? ''

The two looked at each other and smiled.

" That is not a very real distinction,"
said Amroth. " Of course the poor bodies
got in tlie way, as always; there was some
fizzing and some precipitation, as they say
in chemistry. But you each of you gave
and received just what you were meant to
give and receive; though these are compli-
cated matters, like the higher mathematics;
and we must not talk of them to-day. If
one can escape the being shocked at things
and yet be untainted by them, and, on the
other hand, if one can avoid pomposity and
yet learn self-respect, that is enough. But
you are tired to-day, and I want yon just
to rest and be refreshed."

Presently Amroth asked me if I should
like to stay there awhile, and I most will-
ingly consented.

" You want something to do," he said,

The Child of the Dawn 349

" and you shall have some light employ-
ment."

That same day, before Amroth left me,
I had a curious talk with him.

I said to him: "Let me ask you one
question. I had always had a sort of hope
that when I came to the land of spirits, I
should have a chance of seeing and hearing
something of some of the great souls of
earth. I had dimly imagined a sort of
reception, where one could wander about
and listen to the talk of the men one had
admired and longed to see — ^Plato, let me
say, and Shakespeare, Walter Scott, and
Shelley — some of the immortals. But I
don't seem to have seen anything of them
— only just ordinary and simple people."

Amroth laughed.

"You do say the most extraordinarily

ingenuous things," he said. " In the first

place, of course, we have quite a different

scale of values here. People do not take
rank by their accomplishments, but by their

I)ower of loving. Many of the great men

350 The Child of the Dawn

of earth — and this is particularly the case
with writers and artists — ^are absolutely
nothing here. They had, it is true, a i
and delicate brain, on which they played
with great skill; but half the artists of the
world are great as artists, simply because
they do not care. They perceive and they
express ; but they would not have the heart
to do it at all, if they really cared. Some
of them, no doubt, were men of great hearts,
and they have their place and work. But
to claim to see all the highest spirits to-
gether is as absurd as if yon called on a
doctor in London at eleven o'clock and ex-
pected to meet all the great physicians at
his house, intent on general conversation.
Some of the great people, indeed, yon have
met, and they were very simple persons
on earth. The greatest person you have
hitherto seen was a butler on earth — ^the
master of your College. And if it does not
shock your aristocratic susceptibilities too
much, the President of this place kept a
small shop in a country village. But one

The Child of the Dawn 351

of the teachers here was actually a marquis
in the world! Does that uplift you? He
teaches the little girls how to play cricket,
and he is a very good dancer. Perhaps you
Tvould like to be introduced to him? ''

" Don't treat me as a child," I said, rather
pettishly.

" No, no," said Amroth, " it is n't that.
But you are one of those impressible peo-
ple; and they always find it harder to
disentangle themselves from the old ideas."

I spent a long and happy time in the
school. I was given a little teaching to do,
and found it perfectly enchanting. Imag-
ine children with everything greedy and
sensual gone, with none of the crossness or
spitefulness that comes of fatigue or pres-
sure, but with all the interesting passions
of humanity, admiration, keenness, curi-
osity, and even jealousy, emulation, and
anger, all alive and active in them. They
were not angelic children at all, neither
meek nor mild. But they were generous
and affectionate, and it was easy to evoke

352 The Child of the Dawn

these feelings. The one thing absent from
the whole place was any tonch of sentimen-
tality, which arises from natural affections
suppressed into a giggling kind of secrecy.
They expressed affection londly and frankly,
just as they expressed indignation and an-
noyance. All the while I kept Cynthia in
my heart; she was ever before me in a
thousand sweet postures and with innumer-
able glances. But I saw much of my
sturdy and wholesome-minded old friend;
and the sore pain of parting faded away
out of my heart, and left me with nothing
but the purest and deepest love, which
helped me in all I did or said, and made
me patient and tender-hearted. And thus
the period sped not unhappily away, though
I had my times of agony and despair.

XXXII

BECAME aware at this time, very gradually
nd even solemnly, that some crisis of my
fe was approaching. How the monition
ame to me I hardly know; I felt like a
lan wandering in the dark, with eyes
trained and hands outstretched, who is
imly aware of some great object, tree or
aystack or house, looming up ahead of
im, which he cannot directly see, but of
^hich he is yet conscious by the vibration
f some sixth sense. The wonder came by
egrees to overshadow my thoughts with a
BDse of expectant awe, and to permeate all
tie urgent concerns of my life with its
hadowy presence. Even the thought of
!ynthia, who indeed was always in my
lind, became obscured with the dimness of
[lis obscure anticipation.
One day Amroth stood beside me as I

353

354 The Child of the Dawn

worked; he was very grave and seri
but with a joyful kind of courage about
him. I pushed my books and papers away,
and rose to greet him, saying half-UBCOO-
sciously, and just putting my thon^t into
words :

" So it has come ! ''

" Yes," said Amroth, " it has come! 1 1
have known it for some little time, and
my thought has mingled with youra I tell
you frankly that I did not qnite expect it;
but one never knows here. Yon must come
with me at once. You are to see the last
mystery; and though I am glad for your
sake that it is come, yet I tremble for yon,
because it is unlike any other exjierience;
and one can never be the same again."

I felt myself oppressed by a sadden terror
of darkness, but, half to reassure myself, I
answered lightly:

^^ But it does not seem to have aftected
you, Amroth! You are always light-
hearted and cheerful, and not overshadowed
by any dark or gloomy thoughts."

The Child of the Dawn 355

" Yes, yes," said Amrotli hurriedly. " It
is easy enougli, when it is once over.
Nothing that is behind one matters; but
this is a thing that one cannot jest about.
Of course there is nothing to fear; but to
be brought face to face with the greatest
thing in the world is not a light matter.
Let me say this. I am to be with you all
through; and my only word to you is that
you must do exactly what I tell you, and
at once, without any doubting or flinching.
Then all will be well! But we must not
delay. Come at once, and keep your mind
perfectly quiet.^^

We went out together; and there seemed
to have fallen a sense of gravity over all
whom we met. My companions did not
speak to me as we walked out, but stood
aside to see me pass, and even looked at
me, I thought, with an air half of reverence,
half of a sort of natural compassion, as one
might watch a dear friend go to be tried for
his life.

We came out of the door, and found, it

356 The Child of the Dawn

seemed to me, an nnnsnal stillness every-
where. The wind, which often blew high
on the bare moor, had dropped. We took
a path, whicli I had never seen, which struck
off over the hills. We walked for a long
time, almost in silence. But I could not
bear the strange curiosity which was strain-
ing at my heart, and I said presently to
Amroth :

" Give me some idea what I am to see or
to endure. Is it some judgment which I
am to face, or am I to suffer pain? I
would rather know^ the best and the worst
of it."

" It is everything," said Amroth ; " you
are to see God. All is comprised in
that."

His words fell with a shocking distinct-
ness in the calm air, and I felt my heart
and limbs fail me, and a dizziness came
over my mind. Hardly knowing what I
did or said, I came to a stop.

" But I did not know that it was pos-
sible,'- I said. " I thought that God was

The Child of the Dawn 357

everywhere — within us, about us, beyond
us? How can that be? "

"Yes," said Amroth, "God is indeed
everywhere, and no place contains Him;
neither can any of us see or comprehend
Him. I cannot explain it; but there is a
centre, so to speak, near to which the un-
clean and the evil cannot come, where the
fire of His thought burns the hottest. . . .
Oh," he said, " neither word nor thought is
of any use here; you will see what you
will see ! "

Perhaps the hardest thing I had to bear
in all my wanderings was the sight of Am-
roth's own fear. It was unmistakable.
His spirit seemed prepared for it, perfectly
courageous and sincere as it was ; but there
was a shuddering awe upon him, for all
that, which infected me with an extremity
of terror. Was it that he thought me un-
equal to the experience? I could not tell.
But we walked as men dragging them-
selves into some fiery and dreadful mar-
tyrdom.

358 The Child of the Dawn

Again I could not bear it, and I cried
out suddenly:

" But, Amroth, He is Love; and we can
enter without fear into the presence of
Love I "

" Have you not yet guessed/' said Am-
roth sternly, " how terrible Love can be?
It is the most terrible thing in the world,
because it is the strongest. If Death is
dreadful, what must that be which is
stronger than Death? Come, let us be
silent, for we are near the place, and this
is no time for words;'' and then he added
witli a look of the deepest compassion and
tenderness, " I wish I could speak dif-
ferently, brother, at this hour; but I am

myself afraid."

t.

And at that we gave up all speech, and
only our thoughts sprang together and in-
tertwined, like two children that clasp each
other close in a burning house, when the
smoke comes volleying from the door.

We were coming now to what looked like
a ridge of rocks ahead of us; and I saw here

The Child of the Dawn 359

a wonderful thing, a great light of incred-
ible pureness and whiteness, which struck
upwards from the farther side. This be-
gan to light up our own pale faces, and to
throw our backs into a dark shadow, even
though the radiance of the heavenly day
w as all about us. And at last we came to
the place.

It was the edge of a precipice so vast, so
stupendous, that no word can even dimly
describe its depth; it was all illuminated
with incredible clearness by the light which
struck upwards from below. It was abso-
lutely sheer, great pale cliffs of white stone
running downwards into the depth. To left
and right the precipice ran, with an ir-
regular outline, so that one could see the
clifif-fronts gleam how many millions of
leagues below ! There seemed no end to it.
But at a certain point far down in the
abyss the light seemed stronger and purer.
I was at first so amazed by the sight that
I gazed in silence. Then a dreadful dizzi-
ness came over me, and I felt Amroth's

36o The Child of the Dawn

hand put round me to sustain me. Then
in a faint whisper, that was almost in-
audible, Amroth, pointing with his finger
downwards, said:

" Watch that place where the light seonB
clearest.'^

I did so. Suddenly there came, as from
the face of the cliflf, a thing like a cloudy
jet of golden steam. It passed out into the
clear air, shaping itself in strange and in-
tricate curves; then it grew darker in
colour, hung for an instant like a cloud of
smoke, and then faded into the sky.

" What is that? " I said, surprised out
of my terror.

" I may tell you that,'* said Amroth,
" that you may know what you see. There
is no time here; and you have seen a uni-
verse made, and live its life, and die. You
have seen the worlds created. That cloud
of whirling suns, each with its planets, has
taken shape before your eyes ; life has arisen
tliere, has developed; men like ourselves
have lived, have wrestled with evil, have

I

The Child of the Dawn 361

formed states, have died and vanished.
That is all but a single thought of God."

Another came, and then another of the
golden jets, each fading into darkness and
dispersing.

" And now," said Amroth, " the moment
has come. You are to make the last sacri-
fice of the soul. Do not shrink back, fear
nothing. Leap into the abyss ! "

The thought fell upon me with an in-
finity and an incredulity of horror that 1
cannot express in words. I covered my
eyes with my hands.

"Oh, I cannot, I cannot," I said; "any-
thing but this! God be merciful; let me
go rather to some infinite place of torment
where at least I may feel myself alive. Do
not ask this of me ! "

Amroth made no answer, and I saw that
he was regarding me fixedly, himself pale
to the lii)s; but with a touch of anger and
even of contempt, mixed with a world of
compassion and love. There was something
in this look which seemed to entreat me

362 The Child of the Dawn

mutely for my own sake and his own to
act. I do not know what the impulse^
that came to me — self -con tempt, trust, curi-
osity, the yearning of love. I closed mj
eyes, I took a faltering step, and stumb!
liuddling and aghast, over the edge. The
air flew up past me with a sort of shrid;
I opened my eyes once, and saw the vhite
cliffs speeding past. Then an uneonsci<
ness came over me and I knew no more.

'' XXXIII

I:

[ CAME to myself very gradually and dimly,
''^•witli no recollection at first of what had
*ti happened. I was lying on my back on some
soft grassy place, with the air blowing cool
B* over me. I thought I saw Amroth bend-
ing over me with a look of extraordinary
happiness, and felt his arm about me; but
again I became unconscious, yet all the
time with a blissfulness of repose and joy,
far beyond what I had experienced at my
first waking on the sunlit sea. Again life
dawned upon me. I was there, I was my-
self. What had happened to me? I could
not tell. So I lay for a long time half
dreaming and half swooning; till at last
life seemed to come back suddenly to me,
and I sat up. Amroth was holding me in
his arms close to the spot from which I
had sprung.

" Have I been dreaming? " I said. " Was

363

364 The Child of the Dawn

it here? and when? I cannot remember.
It seems impossible, but was I told to jn
down? What has happened to me? lam
confused." I

" You will know presently," said Am-
roth, in a tone from which all the fear
seemed to have vanished. " It is all over,
and I am thankful. Do not try to recol-
lect; it will come back to you presently.
eJnst rest now; you have been through
strange things."

Suddenly a thought began to shape itself
in my mind, a thought of perfect and
irresistible joy.

" Yes," I said, " I remember now. We
were afraid, both of us, and you told me
to leap down. But what was it that I saw,
and what was it that was told me? I can-
not recall it. Oh," I said at last, " I know
now; it comes back to me. I fell, in hid-
eous cowardice and misery. The wind blew
shrill. I saw the cliffs stream past; then
I was unconscious, I think. I seem to have
died; but part of me was not dead. My

i
i

n

f

ft The Child of the Dawn 365

lu^ flight was stayed, and I floated out some-
j^ where. I was joined to something that
^, was like both fire and water in one. I was
seen and known and understood and loved,
.J perfectly and unutterably and for ever.
But there was pain, somewhere, Amroth!
How was that? I am sure there was pain."
" Of course, dear child," said Amroth,
" there was pain, because there was every-
thing."

" But," I said, " I cannot understand
yet; why was that terrible leap demanded
of me? And why did I confront it with
such abject cowardice and dismay? Surely
one need not go stumbling and cowed into
the presence of God? "

" There is no other way," said Amroth ;
"you do not understand how terrible per-
fect love is. It is because it is perfect that
it is terrible. Our own imperfect love has
some weakness in it. It is mixed with
pleasure, and then it is not a sacrifice ; one
gives as much of oneself as one chooses;
one is known just so far as one wishes to

366 The Child of the Dawn

be known. But here with God there must
be no concealment — though, even there a
man can withhold his heart from God-
God never uses compulsion ; and the will '
can prevail even against Him. But
reason of the leap that must be taken is
tliis: it is the last surrender, and it cannot
])e made on our terms and conditions; it |
must be absolute. And what I feared for
you was not anything that would happen
if you did commit yourself to God, but what
would happen if you did not; for, of course,
you could have resisted, and then you would
have liad to begin again.^'

I was silent for a little, and then I said:
" I remember now more clearly, but did
I really see Him? It seems so absolutely
simple. Nothing happened. I just be-
came one with the heart and life of the
world; I came home at last. Yet how am
I here? How is it I was not merged in
light and life?"

" Ah," said Amroth, " it is the new birth.
You can never be the same again. But

I The Child of the Dawn 367

jj you are not yet lost in Him. The time for
^ that is not yet. It is a mystery; but as
J yet God works outward, radiates energy
J and force and love; the time will come
when all will draw inward again, and be
. merged in Him. But the world is as yet
in its dawning. The rising sun scatters
light and heat, and the hot and silent noon
is yet to come ; then the shadows move east-
ward, and after that comes the waning sun-
set and the evening light, and last of all
the huge and starlit peace of the night.''

"But," I said, "if this is really so, if
I have been gathered close to God's heart,
why is it that instead of feeling stronger,
I only feel weak and unstrung? I have
indeed an inner sense of peace and happi-
ness, but I have no will or purpose of my
own that I can discern."

"That," said Amroth, "is because you
have given up all. The sense of strength
is part of our weakness. Our plans, our
schemes, our ambitions, all the things that
make us enjoy and hope and arrange, are

368 The Child of the Dawn

but signs of our incompleteness. Your will
is still as molten metal, it has borne the
tierce heat of inner love ; and this has tal
all that is hard and stubborn and (
placent out of you — for a time. But
you return to the life of the body, as you
Avill return, there will be this great dif-
ference in you. You will have to toil and
suffer, and even sin. But there will be one
tiling that you will not do : you will never
be complacent or self-righteous, you will
not judge others hardly. You will be able
to forgive and to make allowances; you will
concern yourself with loving others, not
with trying to improve them up to your
own standard. You will wish them to be
different, but you will not condenm them
for being different; and hereafter the lives
you live on earth will be of the humblest
You will have none of the temptations of
authority, or influence, or ambition again
— all that will be far behind you. You will
live among the poor, you will do the most
menial and commonplace drudgery, you

i The Child of the Dawn 369

ill have none of the delights of life. Yon
will be despised and contemned for being
i ugly and humble and serviceable and meek.
You will be one of those who will be thought
to have no spirit to rise, no power of mak-
ing men serve your turn. You will miss
what are called your chances, you will be
a failure ; but you will be trusted and loved
by children and simple people; they will
depend upon you, and you will make the
atmosphere in which you live one of peace
and joy. You will have selfish employers,
tyrannical masters, thankless children per-
haps, for whom you will slave lovingly.
They will slight you and even despise you,
but their hearts will turn to you again and
again, and yours will be the face that they
will remember when they come to die, as

*

that of the one person who loved them truly
and unquestioningly. That will be your
destiny ; one of utter obscurity and nothing-
ness upon earth. Yet each time, when you
return hither, your work will be higher and
holier, and nearer to the heart of God.

370 The Child of the Dawn

And now I have said enough ; for yon hare
seen God, as I too saw Him long ago ; a
onr hope is henceforward the same."

" Yes," I said to Amroth, ** I am content
1 had thought that I should be exalted
elated by my privileges; but I have do
thought or dream of that. I only desire to
go where I am sent, to do what is desired
of me. I have laid my burden down."

XXXIV

Presently Amroth rose, and said that we
tnust be going onward.

" And now/' he said, " I have a further
thing to tell you, and that is that I have
^ery soon to leave you. To bring you
liither was the last of my appointed tasks,
md my work is now done. It is strange
to remember how I bore you in my arms
)ut of life, like a little sleeping child, and
^ow much we have been together."

"Do not leave me now,'' I said to Am-
[•oth. " There seems so much that I have
:o ask you. And if your work with me is
lone, where are you now going? "

" Where am I going, brother? " said Am-
roth. " Back to life again, and immediately,
^nd there is one thing more that is per-
nitted, and that is that you should be with
ne to the last. Strange that I should have

371

372 The Child of the Dawn

attended you here, to the very crown and
sum of life, and that you should now attend
me where I am going ! But so it is."

" And what do you feel about it? " I
said.

" Oh," said Ampoth, ** I do not like it,
of course. To be so free and active here,
and to be bound again in the body, in the
close, suffering, ill-savoured house of life!
But I have much to gain by it. I have a
sharpness of temper and a peremptoriness
— of which indeed," he said, smiling, "yon
liave had experience. I am fond of doing
things in my own way, inconsiderate of
others, and impatient if they do not go
right. I am hard, and perhaps even vulgar.
But now I am going like a board to the
carpenter, to have some of my roughn
planed out of me, and I hope to do better."

" Well," I said, " I am too full of wonder
and hope just now to be alarmed for you.
I could even wish I were myself departing.
Rut I have a desire to see Cynthia again."

" Yes," said Amroth, " and you will see

fi

The Child of the Dawn 373

her; but you will not be long after me,
brother ; comfort yourself with that ! "

We walked a little farther across the
moorland, talking softly at intervals, till
suddenly I discerned a solitary figure which
was approaching us swiftly.

"Ah," said Amroth, "my time has in-
deed come. I am summoned.'^

He waved his hand to the man, who came
up quickly and even breathlessly, and
banded Amroth a sealed paper. Anuroth
tore it open, read it smilingly, gave a nod
to the officer, saying " Many thanks." The
officer saluted him; he was a brisk young
man, with a fresh air; and he then, without
a word, turned from us and went over the
moorland.

"Come," said Amroth, "let us descend.
You can do this for yourself now; you do
not need my help." He took my hand, and
a mist enveloped us. Suddenly the mist
broke up and streamed away. I looked
round me in curiosity.

We were standing in a very mean street

374 The Child of the Dawn

of brick-built bouses, with slated roofs; o
the roofs we could see a spire, and the cliim-
neys of mills, spouting smoke. The houses
had tiny smoke-dried gardens in front of
them. At the end of the street was an ugly,
ill-tended field, on which much rubbish lay.
There were some dirty children playing
about, and a few women, with shawls over
their heads, were standing together watch-
ing a house opposite. The window of an
upper room was open, and out of it came
cries and moans.

" It 's going very badly with her," said
one of the women, "poor soul; but the
doctor will be here soon. She was about
this morning too. I had a word with her,
and she was feeling very bad. I said she
ought to be in bed, but she said she had
her work to do first."

The women glanced at the window with
a hushed sort of sympathy. A young
woman, evidently soon to become a mother,
looked pale and apprehensive.

" Will she get through? " she said timidly.

The Child of the Dawn 375

" Oh, don't you fear, Sarah," said one of
le women, kindly enough. " She will be
11 right. Bless you, I 've been through it
ive times myself, and I am none the worse.
A.nd when it 's over she '11 be as comfort-
able as never was. It seems worth it
then."

A man suddenly turned the corner of
the street ; he was dressed in a shabby over-
coat with a bowler hat, and he carried a
bag in his hand. He came past us. He
looked a busy, overtried man, but he had
a good-humoured air. He nodded pleas-
antly to the women. One said:

" You are wanted badly in there, doctor."

" Yes," he said cheerfully, " I am making
all the haste I can. Where's John?"

"Oh, he's at work," said the woman.
" He did n't expect it to-day. But he 's
better out of the way: he'd be no good;
he'd only be interfering and grumbling;
but I '11 come across with you, and when
it 's over, I '11 just run down and tell him."

" That 's right," said the doctor, " come

376 The Child of the Dawn

along — the nurse will be ronnd in a minute;
and I can make things easy meantime/'

Strange to say, it had hardly dawned
upon me what was happening. I tmned
to Amrotli, who stood there smiling, but a
little pale, his arm in mine; fresh and up-
riglit, with his slim and graceful limbs, his
bright curled hair, a strange contrast to
tlie slatternly women and the heavily-built
doctor.

"So this," he said, "is where I am to
spend a few years; my new father is a hard-
working man, I believe, perhaps a little
given to drink but kind enough ; and I dare-
say some of these children are my brothers
and sisters. A score of years or more to
si)end here, no doubt! Well, it might be
worse. You will think of me while you
can, and if you have the time, you may pay
me a visit, though I don't suppose I shall
recognise you."

" It seems rather dreadful to me," said
I, " I must confess ! Who would have
thought that I should have forgotten my

The Child of the Dawn 377

visions so soon? Amroth, dear, I can't
bear this — that you should suffer such a
change."

" Sentiment again, brother," said Am-
roth. " To me it is curious and interesting,
even exciting. Well, good-bye; my time is
just up, I think."

The doctor had gone into the house, and
the cries died away. A moment after a
woman in the dress of a nurse came quickly
along the street, knocked, opened the door,
and went in. I could see into the room, a
poorly furnished one. A girl sat nursing
a baby by the fire, and looked very mucli
frightened. A little boy played in tlie
corner. A woman was bustling about, mak-
ing some preparations for a meal.

" Let me do you the honours of my new
establishment," said Amroth with a smile.
" No, dear man, don't go with me any
farther. We will part here, and when we
meet again we shall liave some new stories
to tell. Bless you." He took his hand
from my arm, caught up my hand, kissed

378 The Child of the Dawn

it, said, " There, that is for you," and
disappeared smiling into the house.

A moment later there came the cry of
a new-born child from the window above.
The doctor came out and went down the
street; one of the women joined him and
walked with him. A few minutes later she
returned with a young and sturdy work-
man, looking rather anxious.

" It 's all right," I heard her say, " it -s
a fine boy, and Annie is doing well — she 11
be about again soon enough."

They disappeared into the house, and 1
turned away.

XXXV

It is diflScult to describe the strange emo-
tions with which the departure of Am-
roth filled me. I think that, when I first
entered the heavenly country, the strongest
feeling I experienced was the sense of
security — the thought that the earthly life
was over and done with, and that there re-
mained the rest and tranquillity of heaven.
What I cannot even now understand is this.
I am dimly aware that I have lived a great
series of lives, in each of which I have had
to exist blindly, not knowing that my life
was not bounded and terminated by death,
and only darkly guessing and hoping, in
passionate glimpses, that there might be a
permanent life of the soul behind the life
of the body. And yet, at first, on entering
the heavenly country, I did not remember
having entered it before; it was not familiar

379

38o The Child of the Dawn

to me, nor did I at first recall in memory
that I had been there before. The earthly
life seems to obliterate for a time even the
heavenly memory. But the departure of
Amroth swept away once and for all the
sense of security. One felt of the earthly
life, indeed, as a busy man may think of a
troublesome visit he has to pay, which
breaks across the normal current of his
life, while he anticipates with pleasure his
return to the usual activities of home across
the interval of social distraction, which he
does not exactly desire, but yet is glad that
it should intervene, if only for the height-
ened sense of delight with which he will
resume his real life. I had been happy in
heaven, though with periods of discontent
and moments of dismay. But I no longer
desired a dreamful ease; I only wished pas-
sionately to be employed. And now I saw
that I must resign all expectation of that
As so often happens, both on earth and in
heaven, I had found something of which I
was not in search, while the work which I

The Child of the Dawn 381

had estimated so highly, and prepared my-
self so ardently for, had never been given
to me to do at all.

But for the moment I had but one single
thought. I was to see Cynthia again, and
I might then expect my own summons to
return to life. What surprised me, on look-
ing back at my present sojourn, was the
extreme apparent fortuitousness of it. It
had not been seemingly organised or laid
out on any plan ; and yet it had shown me
this, that my own intentions and desires
counted for nothing. I had meant to work,
and I had been mostly idle ; I had intended
to study psychology, and I had found love.
How much wiser and deeper it had all been
than anything which I had designed !

Even now I was uncertain how to find
Cynthia. But recollecting that Amrotli
had warned me that I had gained new
powers which I might exercise, I set my-
self to use them. I concentrated myself
upon the thought of Cynthia; and in a
moment, just as the hand of a man in a

382 The Child of the Dawn

dark room, feeling for some familiar ob-
ject, encounters and closes upon the thing
he is seeking, I seemed to touch and em-
brace the thought of Cynthia. I directed
myself thither. The breeze fanned my
hair, and as I opened my eyes I saw
that I was in an unfamiliar place — not the
forest where I had left Cynthia, but in a
terraced garden, under a great hill, wooded
to the peak. Stone steps ran up through
the terraces, the topmost of which was
crowned by a long irregular building, very
quaintly designed. I went up the steps,
and, looking about me, caught sight of two
figures seated on a wooden seat at a little
distance from me, overlooking the valley.
One of these was Cynthia. The other was
a young and beautiful woman; the two
were talking earnestly together. Suddenly
Cynthia turned and saw me, and rising
quickly, came to me and caught me in her
arms.

" I was sure you were somewhere near
me, dearest," she said ; " I dreamed of you

The Child of the Dawn 383

last night, and you have been in my
thoughts all day/^

My darling was in some way altered.
She looked older, wiser, and calmer, but
she was in my eyes even more beautiful.
The other girl, who had looked at us in
surprise for a moment, rose too and came
shyly forwards. Cynthia caught her hand,
and presented her to me, adding, "And
now you must leave us alone for a little,
if you will forgive me for asking it, for
we have much to ask and to say.''

The girl smiled and went oflp, looking
back at us, I thought, half-enviously.

We went and sat down on the seat, and
Cynthia said:

" Something has happened to you, dear
one, I see, since I saw you last — ^something
great and glorious.''

"Yes," I said, "you are right; I have
seen the beginning and the end ; and I have
not yet learned to understand it. But I
am the same, Cynthia, and yours utterly.
We will speak of this later. Tell me first

384 The Child of the Dawn

what has happened to you, and what this
place is. I will not waste time in talk-
ing; I want to hear yon talk and to see 1
you talk. How often have I longed for
that ! " '

Cynthia took my hand in both of her
own, and then unfolded to me her story.
She had lived long in the forest, alone witi
the child, and then the day had come when
the desire to go farther had arisen in his
mind, and he had left her, and she 1
felt strangely desolate, till she too had been
summoned.

" And this place — how can I describe it?''
she said. " It is a home for spirits who
liave desired love on earth, and who yet,
from some accident of circumstance, have
never found one to love them with any in-
timacy of passion. How strange it is to
think," she went on, "that I, just by the
inheritance of beauty, was surrounded with
love and the wrong sort of love, so that I
never learned to love rightly and truly;
while so many, just from some lack of

The Child of the Dawn 385

beauty, some homeliness or ungainliness of
feature or carriage, missed the one kind
of love that would have sustained and fed
them — have never been held in a lover's
arms, or held a child of their own against
their heart. And so," she went on smiling,
**many of them lavished their tenderness
upon animals or crafty servants or selfish
relations; and grew old and fanciful and
petulant before their time. It seems a sad
-waste of life that! Because so many of
them are spirits that could have loved
finely and devotedly all the time. But
here," she said, "they unlearn their ca-
prices, and live a life by strict rule — and
they go out hence to have the care of
children, or to tend broken lives into tran-
quillity — and some of them, nay most of
them, find heavenly lovers of their own.
They are odd, fractious people at first,
curiously concerned about health and oc-
cupation ; and one can often do nothing but
listen to their complaints. But they find
their way out in time, and one can help

25

386 The Child of the Dawn

them a little, as soon as they begin to it
sire to hear something of other lives
their own. They have to learn to turn lore
outwards instead of inwards; just as V
she added laughing, " had to turn my
love inwards instead of outwards/'

Then I told Cynthia what I could teD
of my own experiences, and she heard
with astonishment. Then I said:

" What surprises me about it, is that I
seem somehow to have been given
than I can hold. I have a very shallow
and trivial nature, like a stream tbat
sparkles pleasantly enough over a pebbly
bottom, but in which no boat or man
swim. I liave always been absorbed in the
observation of details and in the outside of
things. I spent so much energy in watch-
ing the faces and gestures and utterances
and tricks of those about me that I never
had the leisure to look into their hearts.
And now these great depths have opened
before me, and I feel more childish and
j^eblp ^hnr\ e^er, like a frail glass which

The Child of the Dawn 387

Lolds a most precious liquor, and gains
brightness and glory from the hues of the
wine it holds, but is not like the gem,
compact of colour and radiance/'

Cynthia laughed at me.

"At all events, you have not forgotten
liow to make metaphors,^' she said.

" No," said I, " that is part of the mis-
chief, that I see the likenesses of things and
not their essences." At which she laughed
again more softly, and rested her cheek on
my shoulder.

Then I told her of the departure of
Amroth.

" That is wonderful," she said.

And then I told her of my own approach-
ing departure, at which she grew sad for
a moment. Then she said, " But come, let
us not waste time in forebodings. Will
you come with me into the house to see
the likenesses of things, or shall we have
an hour alone together, and try to look
into essences? "

I caught her by the hand.

388 The Child of the Dawn

" No," I said, " I care no more abont the
machinery of these institutions. I am the
pilgrim of love, and not the student of
organisations. If you may quit your task,
and leave your ladies to regretful memories
of their lap-dogs, let us go out together for
a little, and say what we can — for I am
sure that my time is approaching."

Cynthia smiled and left me, and returned
running ; and then we rambled off together,
up the steep paths of the woodland, to the
mountain-top, from which we had a wide
prospect of the heavenly country, a great
blue well-watered plain lying out for
leagues before us, with the shapes of mys-
terious mountains in the distance. But I
can give no account of all we said or did,
for heart mingled with heart, and there was
little need of speech. And even so, in those
last sweet hours, I could not help marvel-
ling at how utterly different Cynthia's
heart and mind were from my own; even
then it was a constant shock of surprise
that we should understand each other so

The Child of the Dawn 389

perfectly, and yet feel so differently about
so much. It seemed to me that, even after
all I had seen and suffered, my heart was
still bent on taking and Cynthia's on giv-
ing. I seemed to see my own heart through
Cynthia's, while she appeared to see mine
but through her own. We spoke of our ex-
periences, and of our many friends, now
hidden from us — and at last we spoke of
Lucius. And then Cynthia said :

" It is strange, dearest, that now and then
there should yet remain any doubt at all
in my mind about your wish or desire; but
I must speak; and before I speak, I will
say that whatever you desire, I will do.
But I think that Lucius has need of me,
and I am his, in a way which I cannot de-
scribe. He is halting now in his way, and
he is unhappy because his life is incom-
plete. May I help him? "

At this there struck through me a sharp
and jealous pang; and a dark cloud seemed
to float across my mind for a moment. But
I set all aside, and thought for an in-

390 The Child of the Dawn

stant of the vision of Gk)d, And then I
»aid: |

" Yes, Cynthia ! I had wondered too ; and
it seems perhaps like the last taint of earth,
that I would, as it were, condemn you to
a sort of widowhood of love when I am
gone. But you must follow your own
heart, and its pure and sweet advice, and
the Will of Love; and you must use your
treasure, not hoard it for note in solitude.
Dearest, I trust you and worship you
utterly and entirely. It is through you and
your love that I have found my way to the
heart of God; and if indeed you can take
another heart thither, you must do it for
love's own sake." And after this we were
silent for a long space, heart blending
wholly with heart.

Then suddenly I became aware that some
one was coming up through the wood, to
the rocks where we sat: and Cynthia clung
close to me, and I knew that she was sor-
rowful to death. And then I saw Lucius
come up out of the wood, and halt for a

The Child of the Dawn 391

moment at the sight of us together. Then
he came on almost reverently, and I saw
that he carried in his hand a sealed paper
like that which had been given to Amroth;
and I read it and found my summons
written.

Then while Lucius stood beside me, with
his eyes upon the ground, I said :

" I must go in haste ; and I have but one
thing to do. We have spoken, Cynthia and
T, of the love you have long borne her ; and
she is yours now, to comfort and lead you
as she has led and comforted me. This is
the last sacrifice of love, to give up love
itself; and this I do very willingly for the
sake of Him that loves us: and here," I
said, " is a strange thing, that at the very
crown and summit of life, for I am sure
that this is so, we should be three hearts,
so full of love, and yet so sorrowing and
suffering as we are. Is pain indeed the
end of all?'^

" No," said Cynthia, " it is not the end,
and yet only by it can we measure the depth

392 The Child of the Dawn

and height of love. If we look into ow
hearts, we know that in spite of all we
are more than rewarded, and more than
conquerors/^

Then I took Cynthia's hand and laid it
in the hand of Lucius; and I left them Um
upon the peak, and turned no more. And
no more woeful spirit was in the land of
heaven that day than mine as I stumbled
wearily down the slope, and found the
valley. And then, for I did not know the
way to descend, I commended n^yself to
God; and He took me.

XXXVI

I SAW that I was standing in a narrow
muddy road, with deep ruts, which led up
from the bank of a wide river — a tidal
river, as I could see, from the great mud-
flats fringed with sea-weed. The sun
blazed down upon the whole scene. Just
below was a sort of landing-place, where
lay a number of long, low boats, shaded
with mats curved like the hood of a waggon ;
a little farther out was a big quaint ship,
with a high stern and yellow sails. Beyond
the river rose great hills, thickly clothed
with vegetation. In front of me, along the
roadside, stood a number of mud-walled
huts, thatched with some sort of reeds; be-
yond these, on the left, was the entrance of
a larger house, surrounded with high walls,
the tops of trees, with a strange red foliage,
appearing over the enclosure, and the tiled

393

394 The Child of the Dawn

roofs of buildings. Farther still were the
walls of a great town, huge earthworks
crowned with plastered fortifications, and
a gate, with a curious roof to it, running
out at each end into horns carved of wood.
At some distance, out of a grove to the
right, rose a round tapering tower of moul-
dering brickwork. The rest of the nearer
country seemed laid out in low plantations
of some green-leaved shrub, with rice-fields
interspersed in the more level ground.

There were only a few people in sight
Some men with arms and legs bare, and
big hats made of reeds, were carrying up
goods from the landing-place, and a num-
ber of children, pale and small-eyed, dirtj
and half -naked, were playing about by the
roadside. I went a few paces up the road,
and stopped beside a house, a little larger
til an the rest, with a rough verandah by the
door. Here a middle-aged man was seated,
plaiting something out of reeds, but evi-
dently listening for sounds within the
house, with an air half -tranquil, half-

The Child of the Dawn 395

anxious; by him on a slab stood something
that looked like a drum, and a spray of
azalea flowers. While I watched, a man
of a rather superior rank, with a dark
flowered jacket and a curious hat, looked
out of a door which opened on the verandah
and beckoned him in; a sound of low sub-
dued wailing came out from the house, and
I knew that my time was hard at hand. It
was strange and terrible to me at the mo-
ment to realise that my life was to be bound
up, I knew not for how long, with this re-
mote place; but I was conscious too of a
deep excitement, as of a man about to start
upon a race on which much depends. There
came a groan from the interior of the
house, and through the half-open door I
could see two or three dim figures standing
round a bed in a dark and ill-furnished
room. One of the figures bent down, and
I could see the face of a woman, very pale,
the eyes closed, and the lips open, her arms
drawn up over her head as in an agony
of pain. Then a sudden dimness came over

396 The Child of the Dawr

me, aod a deadly faintnesB. I e

throQgh tlie verandah to the ope

Tlie darkness cloaed in apon me
knew no more.

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